#AmericanWriters
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
672 The Future—never spoke— Nor will He—like the Dumb— Reveal by sign—a syllable Of His Profound To Come—
The Wind took up the Northern Th… And piled them in the south - Then gave the East unto the West And opening his mouth The four Divisions of the Earth
Tie the strings to my life, my Lo… Then I am ready to go! Just a look at the horses— Rapid! That will do! Put me in on the firmest side,
792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
Sometimes with the Heart Seldom with the Soul Scarcer once with the Might Few - love at all.
330 The Juggler’s Hat her Country is… The Mountain Gorse—the Bee’s!
529 I’m sorry for the Dead—Today— It’s such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It’s time o’ year for Hay.
938 Fairer through Fading—as the Day Into the Darkness dips away— Half Her Complexion of the Sun— Hindering—Haunting—Perishing—
113 Our share of night to bear— Our share of morning— Our blank in bliss to fill Our blank in scorning—
My River runs to thee’— Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me? My River wait reply’— Oh Sea’—look graciously’— I’ll fetch thee Brooks
A Wind that rose Though not a Leaf In any Forest stirred But with itself did cold engage Beyond the Realm of Bird -
No rack can torture me, My soul’s at liberty Behind this mortal bone There knits a bolder one You cannot prick with saw,