#AmericanWriters
550 I cross till I am weary A Mountain—in my mind— More Mountains—then a Sea— More Seas—And then
II OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.
A Sickness of this World it most… When Best Men die. A Wishfulness their far Condition To occupy. A Chief indifference, as Foreign
99 New feet within my garden go— New fingers stir the sod— A Troubadour upon the Elm Betrays the solitude.
342 It will be Summer—eventually. Ladies—with parasols— Sauntering Gentlemen—with Canes— And little Girls—with Dolls—
150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—
118 My friend attacks my friend! Oh Battle picturesque! Then I turn Soldier too, And he turns Satirist!
LXI EACH life converges to some cent… Expressed or still; Exists in every human nature A goal,
The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. The low grass loaded with the dew,
571 Must be a Woe— A loss or so— To bend the eye Best Beauty’s way—
415 Sunset at Night—is natural— But Sunset on the Dawn Reverses Nature—Master— So Midnight's—due—at Noon.
551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—
322 There came a Day at Summer’s full… Entirely for me— I thought that such were for the… Where Resurrections—be—
60 Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she! Like her the Evenings steal
403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—