#AmericanWriters
158 Dying! Dying in the night! Won’t somebody bring the light So I can see which way to go Into the everlasting snow?
84 Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver”— Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest.
904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—
941 The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals— The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plant… At Evening, it is not At Morning, in a Truffled Hut It stop opon a Spot As if it tarried always
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
982 No Other can reduce Our mortal Consequence Like the remembering it be nought A Period from hence
884 As Everywhere of Silver With Ropes of Sand To keep it from effacing The Track called Land.
174 At last, to be identified! At last, the lamps upon thy side The rest of Life to see! Past Midnight! Past the Morning…
808 So set its Sun in Thee What Day be dark to me— What Distance—far— So I the Ships may see
378 I saw no Way—The Heavens were st… I felt the Columns close— The Earth reversed her Hemisphere… I touched the Universe—
LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
865 He outstripped Time with but a Bo… He outstripped Stars and Sun And then, unjaded, challenged God In presence of the Throne.