#AmericanWriters
132 I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink;
I know a place where summer strive… With such a practised frost, She each year leads her daisies ba… Recording briefly, ‘Lost.’ But when the south wind stirs the…
826 Love reckons by itself—alone— “As large as I”—relate the Sun To One who never felt it blaze— Itself is all the like it has—
307 The One who could repeat the Summ… Were greater than itself—though H… Minutest of Mankind should be— And He—could reproduce the Sun—
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
246 Forever at His side to walk— The smaller of the two! Brain of His Brain— Blood of His Blood—
453 Love—thou art high— I cannot climb thee— But, were it Two— Who know but we—
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,
180 As if some little Arctic flower Upon the polar hem— Went wandering down the Latitudes Until it puzzled came
684 Best Gains’—must have the Losses’… To constitute them’—Gains’—
789 On a Columnar Self— How ample to rely In Tumult—or Extremity— How good the Certainty
20 Distrustful of the Gentian— And just to turn away, The fluttering of her fringes Child my perfidy—
379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
893 Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb— Or Dome of Worm— Or Porch of Gnome—
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—