#AmericanWriters
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—
284 The Drop, that wrestles in the Se… Forgets her own locality— As I—toward Thee— She knows herself an incense small…
408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,
90 Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered thro’ the village—
714 Rest at Night The Sun from shining, Nature—and some Men— Rest at Noon—some Men—
LXXIX I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before
964 “Unto Me?” I do not know you— Where may be your House? “I am Jesus—Late of Judea— Now—of Paradise”—
910 Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By—Paradox—the Mind itself— Presuming it to lead
442 God made a little Gentian— It tried—to be a Rose— And failed—and all the Summer lau… But just before the Snows
How firm Eternity must look To crumbling men like me The only Adamant Estate In all Identity - How mighty to the insecure
756 One Blessing had I than the rest So larger to my Eyes That I stopped gauging—satisfied— For this enchanted size—
282 How noteless Men, and Pleiads, st… Until a sudden sky Reveals the fact that One is rapt Forever from the Eye—
655 Without this—there is nought— All other Riches be As is the Twitter of a Bird— Heard opposite the Sea—