#AmericanWriters
427 I'll clutch — and clutch — Next — One — Might be the golden… Could take it — Diamonds — Wait —
This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty Her message is committed
801 I play at Riches’—to appease The Clamoring for Gold’— It kept me from a Thief, I think, For often, overbold
687 I’ll send the feather from my Hat… Who knows—but at the sight of that My Sovereign will relent? As trinket—worn by faded Child—
300 ‘Morning’—means 'Milking’—to the… Dawn’—to the Teneriffe’— Dice’—to the Maid’— Morning means just Risk’—to the L…
175 I have never seen “Volcanoes”— But, when Travellers tell How those old—phlegmatic mountains Usually so still—
311 It sifts from Leaden Sieves— It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road—
806 A Planted Life—diversified With Gold and Silver Pain To prove the presence of the Ore In Particles—'tis when
The earth has many keys, Where melody is not Is the unknown peninsula. Beauty is nature’s fact. But witness for her land,
319 Of Bronze — and Blaze — The North — tonight — So adequate — it forms — So preconcerted with itself —
493 The World—stands—solemner—to me— Since I was wed—to Him— A modesty befits the soul That bears another’s—name—
191 The Skies can’t keep their secret… They tell it to the Hills— The Hills just tell the Orchards— And they—the Daffodils!
698 Life—is what we make of it— Death—we do not know— Christ’s acquaintance with Him Justify Him—though—
LXXIX I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before
I went to heaven,— ‘T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields