#AmericanWriters
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
724 It’s easy to invent a Life— God does it—every Day— Creation—but the Gambol Of His Authority—
749 All but Death, can be Adjusted— Dynasties repaired— Systems—settled in their Sockets— Citadels—dissolved—
743 The Birds reported from the South… A News express to Me— A spicy Charge, My little Posts— But I am deaf—Today—
XXXIII DARE you see a soul at the white… Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire’s common tint; But when the vivid ore
694 The Heaven vests for Each In that small Deity It craved the grace to worship Some bashful Summer’s Day—
XIX PAIN has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.
“I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead— I could not deem it late—to hear
104 Where I have lost, I softer tread… I sow sweet flower from garden bed… I pause above that vanished head And mourn.
The butterfly obtains But little sympathy Though favorably mentioned In Entomology - Because he travels freely
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
1670 In Winter in my Room I came upon a Worm— Pink, lank and warm— But as he was a worm
268 Me, change! Me, alter! Then I will, when on the Everlast… A Smaller Purple grows— At sunset, or a lesser glow
Out of sight? What of that? See the Bird —reach it! Curve by Curve —Sweep by Sweep — Round the Steep Air — Danger! What is that to Her?
No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,