#AmericanWriters
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—
857 Uncertain lease—develops lustre On Time Uncertain Grasp, appreciation Of Sum—
726 We thirst at first—’tis Nature’s… And later—when we die— A little Water supplicate— Of fingers going by—
99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.
232 The Sun’—just touched the Morning… The Morning’—Happy thing’— Supposed that He had come to dwel… And Life would all be Spring!
344 ’Twas the old—road—through pain— That unfrequented—One— With many a turn—and thorn— That stops—at Heaven—
547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—
Ended, ere it begun - The Title was scarcely told When the Preface perished from Co… The Story, unrevealed - Had it been mine, to print!
656 The name—of it—is “Autumn”— The hue—of it—is Blood— An Artery—upon the Hill— A Vein—along the Road—
The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—
106 The Daisy follows soft the Sun— And when his golden walk is done— Sits shyly at his feet— He—waking—finds the flower there—
714 Rest at Night The Sun from shining, Nature—and some Men— Rest at Noon—some Men—
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
981 As Sleigh Bells seem in summer Or Bees, at Christmas show— So fairy—so fictitious The individuals do
575 “Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn,