#AmericanWriters
It’s like the light,— A fashionless delight It’s like the bee,— A dateless melody. It’s like the woods,
High from the earth I heard a bir… He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
185 “Faith” is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,
541 Some such Butterfly be seen On Brazilian Pampas— Just at noon—no later—Sweet— Then—the License closes—
169 In Ebon Box, when years have flow… To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there!
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
168 If the foolish, call them “flowers… Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well!
766 My Faith is larger than the Hills… So when the Hills decay— My Faith must take the Purple Wh… To show the Sun the way—
976 Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death—The Spirit… I have another Trust”—
212 Least Rivers—docile to some sea. My Caspian—thee.
104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.
This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
202 My Eye is fuller than my vase— Her Cargo—is of Dew— And still—my Heart—my Eye outweig… East India—for you!
