#AmericanWriters
Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. Bait it with the balsam,
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
931 Noon—is the Hinge of Day— Evening—the Tissue Door— Morning—the East compelling the s… Till all the World is ajar—
340 Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my foot
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
The Work of Her that went, The Toil of Fellows done - In Ovens green our Mother bakes, By Fires of the Sun.
I watched the Moon around the Hou… Until upon a Pane— She stopped—a Traveller’s privile… And there upon I gazed—as at a stranger—
862 Light is sufficient to itself— If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day.
641 Size circumscribes—it has no room For petty furniture— The Giant tolerates no Gnat For Ease of Gianture—
SUCCESS is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple host
853 When One has given up One’s life The parting with the rest Feels easy, as when Day lets go Entirely the West
78 A poor—torn heart—a tattered heart… That sat it down to rest— Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West—
831 Dying! To be afraid of thee One must to thine Artillery Have left exposed a Friend— Than thine old Arrow is a Shot
562 Conjecturing a Climate Of unsuspended Suns— Adds poignancy to Winter— The Shivering Fancy turns
105 To hang our head—ostensibly— And subsequent, to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind—