#AmericanWriters
I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet now I know how the heather lo… And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God,
862 Light is sufficient to itself— If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day.
XL THE thought beneath so slight a f… Is more distinctly seen,— As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.
A drop fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook,
The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery
Not any sunny tone From any fervent zone Find entrance there - Better a grave of Balm Toward human nature’s home -
1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
997 Crumbling is not an instant’s Act A fundamental pause Dilapidation’s processes Are organized Decays.
496 As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—
To die—takes just a little while— They say it doesn’t hurt— It’s only fainter—by degrees— And then—it’s out of sight— A darker Ribbon—for a Day—
991 She sped as Petals of a Rose Offended by the Wind— A frail Aristocrat of Time Indemnity to find—
386 Answer July— Where is the Bee— Where is the Blush— Where is the Hay?
535 She’s happy, with a new Content— That feels to her—like Sacrament— She’s busy—with an altered Care— As just apprenticed to the Air—
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.