#AmericanWriters
828 The Robin is the One That interrupt the Morn With hurried—few—express Reports When March is scarcely on—
There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take
383 Exhiliration—is within— There can no Outer Wine So royally intoxicate As that diviner Brand
426 It don't sound so terrible—quite—a… I run it over—"Dead", Brain, "De… Put it in Latin—left of my school… Seems it don't shriek so—under rul…
LXXXIX A WORD is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just
Between My Country—and the Other… There is a Sea— But Flowers—negotiate between us— As Ministry.
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
455 Triumph—may be of several kinds— There’s Triumph in the Room When that Old Imperator—Death— By Faith
314 Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling— Sometimes—scalps a Tree— Her Green People recollect it When they do not die—
305 The difference between Despair And Fear—is like the One Between the instant of a Wreck And when the Wreck has been—
598 Three times—we parted—Breath—and… Three times—He would not go— But strove to stir the lifeless F… The Waters—strove to stay.
534 We see—Comparatively— The Thing so towering high We could not grasp its segment Unaided—Yesterday—
I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, Eyes— I wonder if It weighs like Mine— Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long—
874 They won’t frown always—some sweet… When I forget to tease— They’ll recollect how cold I look… And how I just said “Please.”
The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery