#AmericanWriters
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power
416 A Murmur in the Trees—to note— Not loud enough—for Wind— A Star—not far enough to seek— Nor near enough—to find—
XXVI THE brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ’T were easier for you
Let me not mar that perfect Dream By an Auroral stain But so adjust my daily Night That it will come again. Not when we know, the Power accos…
727 Precious to Me—She still shall be… Though She forget the name I bear… The fashion of the Gown I wear— The very Color of My Hair—
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!
64 Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair… Some Vision of the World Cashmer… I confidently see! Or else a Peacock’s purple Train
340 Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my foot
66 So from the mould Scarlet and Gold Many a Bulb will rise— Hidden away, cunningly, From saga…
841 A Moth the hue of this Haunts Candles in Brazil. Nature’s Experience would make Our Reddest Second pale.
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—
XVI TO fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.
187 How many times these low feet stag… Only the soldered mouth can tell— Try—can you stir the awful rivet— Try—can you lift the hasps of stee…
183 I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometim… In a Cathedral Aisle, And understood no word it said— Yet held my breath, the while—
335 ’Tis not that Dying hurts us so— ’Tis Living—hurts us more— But Dying—is a different way— A Kind behind the Door—