#AmericanWriters
The Hills erect their Purple Hea… The Rivers lean to see Yet Man has not of all the Throng A Curiosity.
1545 The Bible is an antique Volume— Written by faded men At the suggestion of Holy Spectre… Subjects—Bethlehem&mdash ;
79 Going to Heaven! I don’t know when— Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
443 I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— Life’s little duties do—precisely— As the very least Were infinite—to me—
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
771 None can experience sting Who Bounty—have not known— The fact of Famine—could not be Except for Fact of Corn—
It sounded as if the Streets were… And then– the Streets stood stil… Eclipse - was all we could see at… And Awe - was all we could feel. By and by - the boldest stole out…
Lives he in any other world My faith cannot reply Before it was imperative ’Twas all distinct to me -
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers— Untouched by Morning— and untouched by noon— Sleep the meek members of the Res… Rafter of Satin and Roof of Ston…
592 What care the Dead, for Chanticle… What care the Dead for Day? ’Tis late your Sunrise vex their… And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning
The sky is low, the clouds are mea… A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all day
151 Mute thy Coronation— Meek my Vive le roi, Fold a tiny courtier In thine Ermine, Sir,
672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—