#AmericanWriters
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
711 Strong Draughts of Their Refresh… To drink—enables Mine Through Desert or the Wilderness As bore it Sealed Wine—
XLVI A THOUGHT went up my mind to—d… That I have had before, But did not finish,—some way back, I could not fix the year,
A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—
999 Superfluous were the Sun When Excellence be dead He were superfluous every Day For every Day be said
869 Because the Bee may blameless hum For Thee a Bee do I become List even unto Me. Because the Flowers unafraid
863 That Distance was between Us That is not of Mile or Main— The Will it is that situates— Equator—never can—
898 How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom
923 How the Waters closed above Him We shall never know— How He stretched His Anguish to… That—is covered too—
A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass…
Is it too late to touch you, Dear… We this moment knew - Love Marine and Love terrene - Love celestial too -
726 We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s… And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by—
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.