#AmericanWriters
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—
215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –
838 Impossibility, like Wine Exhilarates the Man Who tastes it; Possibility Is flavorless—Combine
195 For this—accepted Breath— Through it—compete with Death— The fellow cannot touch this Crow… By it—my title take—
469 The Red—Blaze—is the Morning— The Violet—is Noon— The Yellow—Day—is falling— And after that—is none—
883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light
Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near! The saints shall meet
A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,
A PRECIOUS, mouldering pleasur… To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore… A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take,
904 Had I not This, or This, I said, Appealing to Myself, In moment of prosperity— Inadequate—were Life—
758 These’—saw Visions’— Latch them softly’— These’—held Dimples’— Smooth them slow’—
Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
697 I could bring You Jewels—had I a… But You have enough—of those— I could bring You Odors from St.… Colors—from Vera Cruz—
359 I gained it so— By Climbing slow— By Catching at the Twigs that gro… Between the Bliss—and me—
310 Give little Anguish— Lives will fret— Give Avalanches— And they’ll slant—