#AmericanWriters
763 He told a homely tale And spotted it with tears— Upon his infant face was set The Cicatrice of years—
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,
The heart asks pleasure first And then, excuse from pain– And then, those little anodynes That deaden suffering; And then, to go to sleep;
646 I think to Live—may be a Bliss To those who dare to try— Beyond my limit to conceive— My lip—to testify—
LXII A DROP fell on the apple tree Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh.
84 Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver”— Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest.
LXVII If I should die, And you should live, And time should gurgle on, And morn should beam,
123 Many cross the Rhine In this cup of mine. Sip old Frankfort air From my brown Cigar.
DEAR March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before. Put down your hat— You must have walked—
815 The Luxury to apprehend The Luxury 'twould be To look at Thee a single time An Epicure of Me
627 The Tint I cannot take—is best— The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar— A Guinea at a sight—
625 ’Twas a long Parting—but the time For Interview—had Come— Before the Judgment Seat of God— The last—and second time
199 I’m “wife”'—I’ve finished that’— That other state’— I’m Czar’—I’m “Woman” now’— It’s safer so’—
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.