#AmericanWriters
LXIII TALK with prudence to a beggar Of “Potosi” and the mines! Reverently to the hungry Of your viands and your wines!
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading—treading—till it see… That Sense was breaking through— And when they all were seated,
The Clover’s simple Fame Remembered of the Cow - Is better than enameled Realms Of notability. Renown perceives itself
150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—
234 You’re right—“the way is narrow”— And “difficult the Gate”— And “few there be”—Correct again— That “enter in—thereat”—
779 The Service without Hope— Is tenderest, I think— Because ’tis unsustained By stint—Rewarded Work—
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
LXXXV A LIGHT exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.
538 ’Tis true—They shut me in the Col… But then—Themselves were warm And could not know the feeling ’tw… Forget it—Lord—of Them—
271 A solemn thing—it was—I said— A woman—white—to be— And wear—if God should count me f… Her blameless mystery—
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
567 He gave away his Life— To Us—Gigantic Sum— A trifle—in his own esteem— But magnified—by Fame—
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—