#AmericanWriters
410 The first Day’s Night had come— And grateful that a thing So terrible—had been endured— I told my Soul to sing—
733 The Spirit is the Conscious Ear. We actually Hear When We inspect—that’s audible— That is admitted—Here—
A Word dropped careless on a Page May stimulate an eye When folded in perpetual seam The Wrinkled Maker lie Infection in the sentence breeds
82 Whose cheek is this? What rosy face Has lost a blush today? I found her—"pleiad"—in the woods
89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me
Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
A Coffin’—is a small Domain, Yet able to contain A Citizen of Paradise In it diminished Plane. A Grave’—is a restricted Breadth’…
437 Prayer is the little implement Through which Men reach Where Presence—is denied them. They fling their Speech
291 How the old Mountains drip with S… How the Hemlocks burn— How the Dun Brake is draped in C… By the Wizard Sun—
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
Declaiming Waters none may dread… But Waters that are still Are so for that most fatal cause In Nature– they are full –
LXVII If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam,
737 The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago— And now she turns Her perfect Fac… Upon the World below—
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—