#AmericanWriters
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.
135 Water, is taught by thirst. Land—by the Oceans passed. Transport—by throe— Peace—by its battles told—
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.
XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships
50 I haven’t told my garden yet— Lest that should conquer me. I haven’t quite the strength now To break it to the Bee—
September’s Baccalaureate A combination is Of Crickets– Crows– and Retros… And a dissembling Breeze That hints without assuming -
913 And this of all my Hopes This, is the silent end Bountiful colored, my Morning ros… Early and sere, its end
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—
367 Over and over, like a Tune— The Recollection plays— Drums off the Phantom Battlements Cornets of Paradise—
509 If anybody’s friend be dead It’s sharpest of the theme The thinking how they walked alive… At such and such a time—
Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine
Oh Shadow on the Grass, Art thou a Step or not? Go make thee fair my Candidate My nominated Heart - Oh Shadow on the Grass
977 Besides this May We know There is Another— How fair
950 The Sunset stopped on Cottages Where Sunset hence must be For treason not of His, but Life’… Gone Westerly, Today—