#AmericanWriters
XLI THE soul unto itself Is an imperial friend,— Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send.
413 I never felt at Home–Below– And in the Handsome Skies I shall not feel at Home–I know– I don’t like Paradise–
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
892 Who occupies this House? A Stranger I must judge Since No one know His Circumstan… ’Tis well the name and age
How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…
Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking… Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever
327 Before I got my eye put out I liked as well to see— As other Creatures, that have Eye… And know no other way—
260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid—
To mend each tattered Faith There is a needle fair Though no appearance indicate ’Tis threaded in the Air And though it do not wear
XII I CANNOT live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf
XIX I STARTED early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me,
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
560 It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation… But large—serene— Burned on—until through Dissoluti… It failed from Men—
XXXIII DARE you see a soul at the white… Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire’s common tint; But when the vivid ore
472 Except the Heaven had come so nea… So seemed to choose My Door— The Distance would not haunt me s… I had not hoped—before—