#AmericanWriters
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
962 Midsummer, was it, when They died… A full, and perfect time— The Summer closed upon itself In Consummated Bloom—
48 Once more, my now bewildered Dove Bestirs her puzzled wings Once more her mistress, on the dee… Her troubled question flings—
Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; When that which is and that which…
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
607 Of nearness to her sundered Thing… The Soul has special times— When Dimness—looks the Oddity— Distinctness—easy—se ems—
To make a prairie it takes a clove… One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few.
970 Color — Caste — Denomination — These — are Time's Affair — Death's diviner Classifying Does not know they are —
433 Knows how to forget! But could It teach it? Easiest of Arts, they say When one learn how
Not Sickness stains the Brave, Nor any Dart, Nor Doubt of Scene to come, But an adjourning Heart -
458 Like eyes that looked on Wastes— Incredulous of Ought But Blank—and steady Wilderness— Diversified by Night—
34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—
956 What shall I do when the Summer t… What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Mus… From the Maple Keep?
Part One: Life XXXV I CAN wade grief, Whole pools of it,— I ’m used to that.
Wild Nights! Wild Nights! Were I with thee, Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile the winds