#AmericanWriters
183 I’ve heard an Organ talk, sometim… In a Cathedral Aisle, And understood no word it said— Yet held my breath, the while—
822 This Consciousness that is aware Of Neighbors and the Sun Will be the one aware of Death And that itself alone
502 At least—to pray—is left—is left— Oh Jesus—in the Air— I know not which thy chamber is— I’m knocking—everywhere—
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me
105 To hang our head—ostensibly— And subsequent, to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind—
There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take
A Pang is more conspicuous in Spr… In contrast with the things that s… Not Birds entirely– but Minds – Minute Effulgencies and Winds - When what they sung for is undone
805 This Bauble was preferred of Bees… By Butterflies admired At Heavenly—Hopeless Distances— Was justified of Bird—
101 Will there really be a “Morning”? Is there such a thing as “Day”? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
548 Death is potential to that Man Who dies—and to his friend— Beyond that—unconspicuous To Anyone but God—
806 A Planted Life—diversified With Gold and Silver Pain To prove the presence of the Ore In Particles—'tis when
719 A South Wind—has a pathos Of individual Voice— As One detect on Landings An Emigrant’s address.
My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun— In Corners—till a Day The Owner passed—identified— And carried Me away— And now We roam in Sovereign Woo…
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.