#AmericanWriters
114 Good night, because we must, How intricate the dust! I would go, to know! Oh incognito!
They say that ‘time assuages,’— Time never did assuage; An actual suffering strengthens, As sinews do, with age. Time is a test of trouble,
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—
A Coffin—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave—is a restricted Breadth—
486 I was the slightest in the House— I took the smallest Room— At night, my little Lamp, and Boo… And one Geranium—
651 So much Summer Me for showing Illegitimate— Would a Smile’s minute bestowing
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—
671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
342 It will be Summer—eventually. Ladies—with parasols— Sauntering Gentlemen—with Canes— And little Girls—with Dolls—
685 Not “Revelation”—'tis—that waits, But our unfurnished eyes—
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
989 Gratitude—is not the mention Of a Tenderness, But its still appreciation Out of Plumb of Speech.
594 The Battle fought between the Sou… And No Man—is the One Of all the Battles prevalent— By far the Greater One—
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem