#AmericanWriters
316 The Wind didn’t come from the Orc… Further than that— Nor stop to play with the Hay— Nor joggle a Hat—
There is no Silence in the Earth… As that endured Which uttered, would discourage N… And haunt the World.
776 The Color of a Queen, is this— The Color of a Sun At setting—this and Amber— Beryl—and this, at Noon—
204 I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time— The Steeples swam in Amethyst— The news, like Squirrels, ran—
54 If I should die, And you should live— And time should gurgle on— And morn should beam—
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking… Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever
It stole along so stealthy Suspicion it was done Was dim as to the wealthy Beginning not to own -
717 The Beggar Lad—dies early— It’s Somewhat in the Cold— And Somewhat in the Trudging feet… And haply, in the World—
LXVII Presentment is that long shadow on… Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
‘Faith’ is a fine invention When Gentlemen can see’— But Microscopes are prudent In an Emergency.
82 Whose cheek is this? What rosy face Has lost a blush today? I found her—"pleiad"—in the woods
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,