#AmericanWriters
The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—
671 She dwelleth in the Ground— Where Daffodils—abide— Her Maker—Her Metropolis— The Universe—Her Maid—
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
466 ’Tis little I—could care for Pear… Who own the ample sea— Or Brooches—when the Emperor— With Rubies—pelteth me—
He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees, Prepares your brittle substance
XVI TO fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—
The Beggar at the Door for Fame Were easily supplied But Bread is that Diviner thing Disclosed to be denied
242 When we stand on the tops of Thin… And like the Trees, look down— The smoke all cleared away from it… And Mirrors on the scene—
A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky— A little purple—slipped between—
394 ’Twas Love’—not me’— Oh punish’—pray’— The Real one died for Thee’— Just Him’—not me’—
No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,