#AmericanWriters
151 Mute thy Coronation— Meek my Vive le roi, Fold a tiny courtier In thine Ermine, Sir,
642 Me from Myself — to banish — Had I Art — Impregnable my Fortress Unto All Heart —
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—
GLEE! the great storm is over! Four have recovered the land; Forty gone down together Into the boiling sand. Ring, for the scant salvation!
72 Glowing is her Bonnet, Glowing is her Cheek, Glowing is her Kirtle, Yet she cannot speak.
Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could… Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions—
Nature rarer uses Yellow Than another Hue. Saves she all of that for Sunsets Prodigal of Blue Spending Scarlet, like a Woman
298 Alone, I cannot be— For Hosts—do visit me— Recordless Company— Who baffle Key—
LXIII Ample make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair.
105 To hang our head—ostensibly— And subsequent, to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind—
119 Talk with prudence to a Beggar Of “Potose,” and the mines! Reverently, to the Hungry Of your viands, and your wines!
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed
376 Of Course—I prayed— And did God Care? He cared as much as on the Air A Bird—had stamped her foot—
158 Dying! Dying in the night! Won’t somebody bring the light So I can see which way to go Into the everlasting snow?
127 “Houses”—so the Wise Men tell me— “Mansions”! Mansions must be warm… Mansions cannot let the tears in, Mansions must exclude the storm!