#AmericanWriters
XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair
826 Love reckons by itself—alone— “As large as I”—relate the Sun To One who never felt it blaze— Itself is all the like it has—
171 Wait till the Majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered Footman Might dare to touch it now!
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By strech of limb or stir of lid,— An independent one. Was ever idleness like this?
Our lives are Swiss— So still—so Cool— Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on!
59 A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard—
XLIII I LIKE to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step
Departed to the judgment, A mighty afternoon; Great clouds like ushers leaning, Creation looking on. The flesh surrendered, cancelled
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.
62 “Sown in dishonor”! Ah! Indeed! May this “dishonor” be? If I were half so fine myself
226 Should you but fail at—Sea— In sight of me— Or doomed lie— Next Sun—to die—
Those fair—fictitious People— The Women—plucked away From our familiar Lifetime— The Men of Ivory— Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
III SOUL, wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost, indeed, But tens have won an all.