#AmericanWriters
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,— The sweeping up the heart,
282 How noteless Men, and Pleiads, st… Until a sudden sky Reveals the fact that One is rapt Forever from the Eye—
656 The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—
888 When I have seen the Sun emerge From His amazing House— And leave a Day at every Door A Deed, in every place—
High from the earth I heard a bir… He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly
901 Sweet, to have had them lost For news that they be saved— The nearer they departed Us The nearer they, restored,
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
991 She sped as Petals of a Rose Offended by the Wind— A frail Aristocrat of Time Indemnity to find—
566 A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink— I hunted all the Sand— I caught the Dripping of a Rock And bore it in my Hand—
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—
MY cocoon tightens, colors tease, I 'm feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be
VIII A wounded deer leaps highest, I ’ve heard the hunter tell; ’T is but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still.
1540 As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away— Too imperceptible at last To seem like Perfidy—
XXXIV WHO never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.
The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan - Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man. If nature will not tell the tale