#AmericanWriters
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered - Safer not to know - Miseries of conjecture
7 The feet of people walking home With gayer sandals go— The Crocus—til she rises The Vassal of the snow—
737 The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago— And now she turns Her perfect Fac… Upon the World below—
21 We lose’—because we win’— Gamblers’—recollecting which Toss their dice again!
743 The Birds reported from the South… A News express to Me— A spicy Charge, My little Posts— But I am deaf—Today—
An everywhere of silver, With ropes of sand To keep it from effacing The track called land.
Because I could not stop for Deat… He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselv… And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
The Butterfly’s Assumption Gown In Chrysoprase Apartments hung This afternoon put on— How condescending to descend And be of Buttercups the friend
’Twas comfort in her Dying Room To hear the living Clock— A short relief to have the wind Walk boldly up and knock— Diversion from the Dying Theme
735 Upon Concluded Lives There’s nothing cooler falls— Than Life’s sweet Calculations— The mixing Bells and Palls—
793 Grief is a Mouse— And chooses Wainscot in the Breas… For His Shy House— And baffles quest—
90 Within my reach! I could have touched! I might have chanced that way! Soft sauntered thro’ the village—
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—
265 Where Ships of Purple—gently toss… On Seas of Daffodil— Fantastic Sailors—mingle— And then—the Wharf is still!