#AmericanWriters
500 Within my Garden, rides a Bird Upon a single Wheel— Whose spokes a dizzy Music make As ’twere a travelling Mill—
His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree,— A worm his utmost goal.
753 My Soul—accused me—And I quailed… As Tongue of Diamond had reviled All else accused me—and I smiled— My Soul—that Morning—was My frie…
XLIX A POOR torn heart, a tattered he… That sat it down to rest, Nor noticed that the ebbing day Flowed silver to the west,
6 Frequently the wood are pink— Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.
315 He fumbles at your Soul As Players at the Keys Before they drop full Music on— He stuns you by degrees—
This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
822 This Consciousness that is aware Of Neighbors and the Sun Will be the one aware of Death And that itself alone
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
675 Essential Oilsare wrung The Attar from the Rose Be not expressed by Sunsalone It is the gift of Screws
1000 The Fingers of the Light Tapped soft upon the Town With “I am great and cannot wait So therefore let me in.”
295 Unto like Story—Trouble has entic… How Kinsmen fell— Brothers and Sister—who preferred… And their young will
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
728 Let Us play Yesterday— I—the Girl at school— You—and Eternity—the Untold Tale—
936 This Dust, and its Feature— Accredited—Today—Will in a s… Cease to identify— This Mind, and its measure—