#AmericanWriters
321 Of all the Sounds despatched abro… There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boug… That phraseless Melody—
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
Witchcraft has not a Pedigree ’Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death—
LXIII Ample make this bed. Make this bed with awe; In it wait till judgment break Excellent and fair.
22 All these my banners be. I sow my pageantry In May— It rises train by train—
126 To fight aloud, is very brave— But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe—
578 The Body grows without— The more convenient way— That if the Spirit—like to hide Its Temple stands, alway,
I dwell in Possibility – A fairer House than Prose – More numerous of Windows – Superior – for Doors – Of Chambers as the Cedars –
8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables
Silence is all we dread. There’s Ransom in a Voice - But Silence is Infinity. Himself have not a face.
26 It’s all I have to bring today— This, and my heart beside— This, and my heart, and all the fi… And all the meadows wide—
843 I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
135 Water, is taught by thirst. Land—by the Oceans passed. Transport—by throe— Peace—by its battles told—
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—