#AmericanWriters
39 It did not surprise me— So I said—or thought— She will stir her pinions And the nest forgot,
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power
917 Love—is anterior to Life— Posterior—to Death— Initial of Creation, and The Exponent of Earth—
451 The Outer—from the Inner Derives its Magnitude— 'Tis Duke, or Dwarf, according As is the Central Mood—
71 A throe upon the features— A hurry in the breath— An ecstasy of parting Denominated “Death”—
244 It is easy to work when the soul i… But when the soul is in pain— The hearing him put his playthings… Makes work difficult—then—
They shut me up in Prose— As when a little Girl They put me in the Closet— Because they liked me “still”— Still! Could themself have peeped…
How fits his Umber Coat The Tailor of the Nut? Combined without a seam Like Raiment of a Dream - Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
XCVI MY life closed twice before its c… It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me,
I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step Around a pile of mountains,
993 We miss Her, not because We see— The Absence of an Eye— Except its Mind accompany Abridge Society
A slash of Blue— A sweep of Gray— Some scarlet patches on the way, Compose an Evening Sky— A little purple—slipped between—
266 This—is the land—the Sunset washe… These—are the Banks of the Yellow… Where it rose—or whither it rushes… These—are the Western Mystery!
The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more. Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s p…
468 The Manner of its Death When Certain it must die— ’Tis deemed a privilege to choose— ’Twas Major Andre’s Way—