#AmericanWriters
930 There is a June when Corn is cut And Roses in the Seed— A Summer briefer than the first But tenderer indeed
The spider holds a Silver Ball In unperceived Hands— And dancing softly to Himself His Yarn of Pearl—unwinds— He plies from Nought to Nought—
XXVIII I BRING an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching, next to min… And summon them to drink. Crackling with fever, they essay;
646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—
825 An Hour is a Sea Between a few, and me— With them would Harbor be—
544 The Martyr Poets’—did not tell’— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate’—encourage Some…
804 No Notice gave She, but a Change… No Message, but a Sigh— For Whom, the Time did not suffic… That She should specify.
312 Her—last Poems— Poets ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled Other,
534 We see—Comparatively— The Thing so towering high We could not grasp its segment Unaided—Yesterday—
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
895 A Cloud withdrew from the Sky Superior Glory be But that Cloud and its Auxiliarie… Are forever lost to me
LXXIII I ’LL tell you how the sun rose,— A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran.
591 To interrupt His Yellow Plan The Sun does not allow Caprices of the Atmosphere— And even when the Snow
411 The Color of the Grave is Green— The Outer Grave—I mean— You would not know it from the Fi… Except it own a Stone—
XII I CANNOT live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf