#AmericanWriters
782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—
928 The Heart has narrow Banks It measures like the Sea In mighty—unremitting Bass And Blue Monotony
165 A Wounded Deer—leaps highest— I’ve heard the Hunter tell— ’Tis but the Ecstasy of death— And then the Brake is still!
733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—
Glory is that bright tragic thing That for an instant Means Dominion - Warms some poor name That never felt the Sun,
858 This Chasm, Sweet, upon my life I mention it to you, When Sunrise through a fissure dr… The Day must follow too.
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—
Publication—is the Auction Of the Mind of Man— Poverty—be justifying For so foul a thing Possibly—but We—would rather
72 Glowing is her Bonnet, Glowing is her Cheek, Glowing is her Kirtle, Yet she cannot speak.
529 I’m sorry for the Dead—Today— It’s such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It’s time o’ year for Hay.
Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking… Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever
289 I know some lonely Houses off the… A Robber’d like the look of— Wooden barred, And Windows hanging low,
714 Rest at Night The Sun from shining, Nature—and some Men— Rest at Noon—some Men—
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
833 Perhaps you think me stooping I’m not ashamed of that Christ—stooped until He touched t… Do those at Sacrament