#AmericanWriters
239 “Heaven”—is what I cannot reach! The Apple on the Tree— Provided it do hopeless—hang— That—"He aven" is—to Me!
XXIX THE nearest dream recedes, unreal… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school—boy
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—
432 Do People moulder equally, They bury, in the Grave? I do believe a Species As positively live
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields
209 With thee, in the Desert— With thee in the thirst— With thee in the Tamarind wood— Leopard breathes—at last!
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
48 Once more, my now bewildered Dove Bestirs her puzzled wings Once more her mistress, on the dee… Her troubled question flings—
He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees, Prepares your brittle substance
314 Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling— Sometimes—scalps a Tree— Her Green People recollect it When they do not die—
641 Size circumscribes—it has no room For petty furniture— The Giant tolerates no Gnat For Ease of Gianture—
597 It always felt to me—a wrong To that Old Moses—done— To let him see—the Canaan— Without the entering—
A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasur… To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore… A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take,