#AmericanWriters
312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
515 No Crowd that has occurred Exhibit—I suppose That General Attendance That Resurrection—does—
916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.
772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
CXXXVI I STEPPED from plank to plank So slow and cautiously; The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.
591 To interrupt His Yellow Plan The Sun does not allow Caprices of the Atmosphere— And even when the Snow
268 Me, change! Me, alter! Then I will, when on the Everlast… A Smaller Purple grows— At sunset, or a lesser glow
590 Did you ever stand in a Cavern’s… Widths out of the Sun— And look—and shudder, and block yo… And deem to be alone
205 I should not dare to leave my frie… Because—because if he should die While I was gone—and I—too late— Should reach the Heart that wante…
917 Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth—
818 I could not drink it, Sweet, Till You had tasted first, Though cooler than the Water was The Thoughtfullness of Thirst.
115 What Inn is this Where for the night Peculiar Traveller comes? Who is the Landlord?
