#AmericanWriters
340 Is Bliss then, such Abyss, I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my foot
878 The Sun is gay or stark According to our Deed. If Merry, He is merrier— If eager for the Dead
Epigram THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly To ponder little workmanships
350 They leave us with the Infinite. But He—is not a man— His fingers are the size of fists— His fists, the size of men—
480 “Why do I love” You, Sir? Because— The Wind does not require the Gra… To answer—Wherefore when He pass
147 Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast— Grant God, he charge the bravest Of all the martial blest!
424 Removed from Accident of Loss By Accident of Gain Befalling not my simple Days— Myself had just to earn—
306 The Soul’s Superior instants Occur to Her—alone— When friend—and Earth’s occasion Have infinite withdrawn—
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar,
151 Mute thy Coronation— Meek my Vive le roi, Fold a tiny courtier In thine Ermine, Sir,
597 It always felt to me—a wrong To that Old Moses—done— To let him see—the Canaan— Without the entering—
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
483 A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker’s Ladders stop—
XXVIII A CHARM invests a face Imperfectly beheld,— The lady dare not lift her veil For fear it be dispelled.