#AmericanWriters
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—
637 The Child’s faith is new— Whole—like His Principle— Wide—like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes—
Much Madness is divinest Sense - To a discerning Eye - Much Sense– the starkest Madness… ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -
470 I am alive—I guess— The Branches on my Hand Are full of Morning Glory— And at my finger’s end—
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
526 To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing— Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird
Part One: Life LII VICTORY comes late, And is held low to freezing lips Too rapt with frost
“I want”—it pleaded—All its life— I want—was chief it said When Skill entreated it—the last— And when so newly dead— I could not deem it late—to hear
163 Tho’ my destiny be Fustian— Hers be damask fine— Tho’ she wear a silver apron— I, a less divine—
10 My wheel is in the dark! I cannot see a spoke Yet know its dripping feet Go round and round.
469 The Red—Blaze—is the Morning— The Violet—is Noon— The Yellow—Day—is falling— And after that—is none—
861 Split the Lark—and you’ll find th… Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled… Scantilly dealt to the Summer Mor… Saved for your Ear when Lutes be…
Longing is like the Seed That wrestles in the Ground, Believing if it intercede It shall at length be found. The Hour, and the Clime -
578 The Body grows without— The more convenient way— That if the Spirit—like to hide Its Temple stands, alway,
241 I like a look of Agony, Because I know it’s true— Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate, a Throe—