#AmericanWriters
868 They ask but our Delight— The Darlings of the Soil And grant us all their Countenanc… For a penurious smile.
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host
467 We do not play on Graves— Because there isn’t Room— Besides—it isn’t even—it slants And People come—
121 As Watchers hang upon the East, As Beggars revel at a feast By savory Fancy spread— As brooks in deserts babble sweet
336 The face I carry with me’—last’— When I go out of Time’— To take my Rank’—by’—in the West’… That face’—will just be thine’—
XLIV THE show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to me My neighbor be.
610 You’ll find—it when you try to die… The Easier to let go— For recollecting such as went— You could not spare—you know.
864 The Robin for the Crumb Returns no syllable But long records the Lady’s name In Silver Chronicle.
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set.
An everywhere of silver, With ropes of sand To keep it from effacing The track called land.
19 A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer’s morn— A flask of Dew—A Bee or two— A Breeze—a caper in the trees—
716 The Day undressed—Herself— Her Garter—was of Gold— Her Petticoat—of Purple plain— Her Dimities—as old
She could not live upon the Past The Present did not know her And so she sought this sweet at la… And nature gently owned her The mother that has not a knell
A little Dog that wags his tail And knows no other joy Of such a little Dog am I Reminded by a Boy Who gambols all the living Day
884 As Everywhere of Silver With Ropes of Sand To keep it from effacing The Track called Land.