#AmericanWriters
195 For this—accepted Breath— Through it—compete with Death— The fellow cannot touch this Crow… By it—my title take—
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
453 Love — thou art high — I cannot climb thee — But, were it Two — Who knows but we —
820 All Circumstances are the Frame In which His Face is set— All Latitudes exist for His Sufficient Continent—
772 The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost— The Summit is not given
XXIV WHETHER my bark went down at se… Whether she met with gales, Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails;
902 The first Day that I was a Life I recollect it—How still— That last Day that I was a Life I recollect it—as well—
403 The Winters are so short— I’m hardly justified In sending all the Birds away— And moving into Pod—
The Clover’s simple Fame Remembered of the Cow - Is better than enameled Realms Of notability. Renown perceives itself
197 Morning—is the place for Dew— Corn—is made at Noon— After dinner light—for flowers— Dukes—for Setting Sun!
The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.
No matter—now—Sweet— But when I’m Earl— Won’t you wish you’d spoken To that dull Girl? Trivial a Word—just—
286 That after Horror — that ’twas us… That passed the mouldering Pier — Just as the Granite Crumb let go… Our Savior, by a Hair —
They say that ‘time assuages,’— Time never did assuage; An actual suffering strengthens, As sinews do, with age. Time is a test of trouble,
914 I cannot be ashamed Because I cannot see The love you offer— Magnitude