#AmericanWriters
978 It bloomed and dropt, a Single No… The Flower—distinct and Red— I, passing, thought another Noon Another in its stead
837 How well I knew Her not Whom not to know has been A Bounty in prospective, now Next Door to mine the Pain.
608 Afraid! Of whom am I afraid? Not Death—for who is He? The Porter of my Father’s Lodge As much abasheth me!
874 They won’t frown always—some sweet… When I forget to tease— They’ll recollect how cold I look… And how I just said “Please.”
XVIII READ, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid;
A lane of Yellow led the eye Unto a Purple Wood Whose soft inhabitants to be Surpasses solitude If Bird the silence contradict
On my volcano grows the Grass A meditative spot - An acre for a Bird to choose Would be the General thought - How red the Fire rocks below -
XXXIV WHO never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.
I had been hungry all the years– My noon had come, to dine– I, trembling, drew the table near And touched the curious wine. ‘T was this on tables I had seen
616 I rose—because He sank— I thought it would be opposite— But when his power dropped— My Soul grew straight.
989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
663 Again—his voice is at the door— I feel the old Degree— I hear him ask the servant For such an one—as me—
532 I tried to think a lonelier Thing Than any I had seen— Some Polar Expiation—An Omen in… Of Death’s tremendous nearness—
907 Till Death’—is narrow Loving’— The scantest Heart extant Will hold you till your privilege Of Finiteness’—be spent’—