#AmericanWriters
The Grass so little has to do ' A Sphere of simple Green ' With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain ' And stir all day to pretty Tunes
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
Shall I take thee, the Poet said To the propounded word? Be stationed with the Candidates Till I have finer tried— The Poet searched Philology
The Devil—had he fidelity Would be the best friend— Because he has ability— But Devils cannot mend— Perfidy is the virtue
185 “Faith” is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.
464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—
522 Had I presumed to hope— The loss had been to Me A Value—for the Greatness’ Sake— As Giants—gone away—
289 I know some lonely Houses off the… A Robber’d like the look of— Wooden barred, And Windows hanging low,
The nearest dream recedes, unreali… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race;
1763 Fame is a bee. It has a song— It has a sting— Ah, too, it has a wing.
471 A Night—there lay the Days betwee… The Day that was Before— And Day that was Behind—were one— And now—'twas Night—was here—
584 It ceased to hurt me, though so sl… I could not feel the Anguish go— But only knew by looking back— That something—had benumbed the T…
It is an honorable thought, And makes one lift one’s hat, As one encountered gentlefolk Upon a daily street, That we’ve immortal place,
21 We lose’—because we win’— Gamblers’—recollecting which Toss their dice again!
283 A Mien to move a Queen— Half Child—Half Heroine— An Orleans in the Eye That puts its manner by
