#AmericanWriters
845 Be Mine the Doom— Sufficient Fame— To perish in Her Hand!
715 The World—feels Dusty When We stop to Die— We want the Dew—then— Honors—taste dry—
13 Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand
XLVIII THOUGH I get home how late, how… So I get home, ’t will compensate… Better will be the ecstasy That they have done expecting me,
A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass…
859 A doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find.
XLIII I LIKE to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks; And then, prodigious, step
661 Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me
’T IS so much joy! ’T is so much… If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I Have ventured all upon a throw; Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone.
925 Struck, was I, not yet by Lightni… Lightning—lets away Power to perceive His Process With Vitality.
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—
Water makes many Beds For those averse to sleep - Its awful chamber open stands - Its Curtains blandly sweep - Abhorrent is the Rest
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
551 There is a Shame of Nobleness— Confronting Sudden Pelf— A finer Shame of Ecstasy— Convicted of Itself—