#AmericanWriters
411 The Color of the Grave is Green— The Outer Grave—I mean— You would not know it from the Fi… Except it own a Stone—
721 Behind Me’—dips Eternity’— Before Me’—Immortality’— Myself’—the Term between’— Death but the Drift of Eastern G…
XV I know some lonely houses off the… A robber ’d like the look of,— Wooden barred, And windows hanging low,
27 Morns like these—we parted— Noons like these—she rose— Fluttering first—then firmer To her fair repose.
175 I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still—
727 Precious to Me—She still shall be… Though She forget the name I bear… The fashion of the Gown I wear— The very Color of My Hair—
399 A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached—
273 He put the Belt around my life I heard the Buckle snap— And turned away, imperial, My Lifetime folding up—
379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
931 Noon—is the Hinge of Day— Evening—the Tissue Door— Morning—the East compelling the s… Till all the World is ajar—
79 Going to Heaven! I don’t know when— Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished
416 A Murmur in the Trees—to note— Not loud enough—for Wind— A Star—not far enough to seek— Nor near enough—to find—
836 Truth — is as old as God — His Twin identity And will endure as long as He A Co-Eternity —
Pain—has an Element of Blank— It cannot recollect When it begun—or if there were A time when it was not— It has no Future—but itself—
889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep