#AmericanWriters
VII WITHIN my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered through the village…
384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—
79 Going to Heaven! I don’t know when— Pray do not ask me how! Indeed I’m too astonished
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
LXXXV A LIGHT exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here
Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could… Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions—
I have no life but this, To lead it here; Nor any death, but lest Dispelled from there; Nor tie to earths to come,
893 Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb— Or Dome of Worm— Or Porch of Gnome—
767 To offer brave assistance To Lives that stand alone— When One has failed to stop them— Is Human—but Divine
XXVII BECAUSE I could not stop for D… He kindly stopped for me— The Carriage held but just Oursel… And Immortality.
416 A Murmur in the Trees—to note— Not loud enough—for Wind— A Star—not far enough to seek— Nor near enough—to find—
185 “Faith” is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry....