#AmericanWriters
893 Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb— Or Dome of Worm— Or Porch of Gnome—
267 Did we disobey Him? Just one time! Charged us to forget Him— But we couldn’t learn!
950 The Sunset stopped on Cottages Where Sunset hence must be For treason not of His, but Life’… Gone Westerly, Today—
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
LVI Faith is a fine invention For gentlemen who see; But microscopes are prudent In an emergency!
365 Dare you see a Soul at the White… Then crouch within the door— Red—is the Fire’s common tint— But when the vivid Ore
493 The World—stands—solemner—to me— Since I was wed—to Him— A modesty befits the soul That bears another’s—name—
765 You constituted Time— I deemed Eternity A Revelation of Yourself— ’Twas therefore Deity
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
723 It tossed—and tossed— A little Brig I knew—o’ertook by… It spun—and spun— And groped delirious, for Morn—
Luck is not chance It’s Toil Fortune’s expensive smile Is earned The Father of the Mine
A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,
496 As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—
509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive… At such and such a time—
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.