#AmericanWriters
408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
201 Two swimmers wrestled on the spar— Until the morning sun— When One—turned smiling to the la… Oh God! the Other One!
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
365 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
334 All the letters I can write Are not fair as this— Syllables of Velvet— Sentences of Plush,
Part One: Life XXXV I CAN wade grief, Whole pools of it,— I ’m used to that.
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—
37 Before the ice is in the pools— Before the skaters go, Or any check at nightfall Is tarnished by the snow—
90 Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered thro’ the village—
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,
491 While it is alive Until Death touches it While it and I lap one Air Dwell in one Blood
468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—
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,
422 More Life—went out—when He went Than Ordinary Breath— Lit with a finer Phosphor— Requiring in the Quench—
870 Finding is the first Act The second, loss, Third, Expedition for The “Golden Fleece”