#AmericanWriters
IX THE heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain; And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering;
463 I live with Him — I see His face… I go no more away For Visitor — or Sundown — Death's single privacy
XLVII IS Heaven a physician? They say that He can heal; But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.
217 Savior! I’ve no one else to tell— And so I trouble thee. I am the one forgot thee so— Dost thou remember me?
LXXIX I YEARS had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
603 He found my Being—set it up— Adjusted it to place— Then carved his name—upon it— And bade it to the East
689 The Zeroes—taught us—Phosphorous— We learned to like the Fire By playing Glaciers—when a Boy— And Tinder—guessed—by power
24 There is a morn by men unseen— Whose maids upon remoter green Keep their Seraphic May— And all day long, with dance and g…
669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—
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.
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
722 Sweet Mountains—Ye tell me no lie… Never deny Me—Never fly— Those same unvarying Eyes Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
382 For Death—or rather For the Things 'twould buy— This—put away Life’s Opportunity—
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed