#AmericanWriters
XLV DELIGHT becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain.
407 If What we could—were what we wou… Criterion—be small— It is the Ultimate of Talk— The Impotence to Tell—
60 Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she! Like her the Evenings steal
379 Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight— Affords a Bliss like Murder— Omnipotent—Acute—
208 The Rose did caper on her cheek— Her Bodice rose and fell— Her pretty speech—like drunken men… Did stagger pitiful—
110 Artists wrestled here! Lo, a tint Cashmere! Lo, a Rose! Student of the Year!
983 Ideals are the Fairly Oil With which we help the Wheel But when the Vital Axle turns The Eye rejects the Oil.
27 Morns like these—we parted— Noons like these—she rose— Fluttering first—then firmer To her fair repose.
161 A feather from the Whippoorwill That everlasting—sings! Whose galleries—are Sunrise— Whose Opera—the Springs—
475 Doom is the House without the Doo… ’Tis entered from the Sun— And then the Ladder’s thrown away… Because Escape—is done—
105 To hang our head—ostensibly— And subsequent, to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind—
243 I’ve known a Heaven, like a Tent— To wrap its shining Yards— Pluck up its stakes, and disappear… Without the sound of Boards
20 Distrustful of the Gentian— And just to turn away, The fluttering of her fringes Child my perfidy—
Not with a club, the Heart is bro… Nor with a stone; A whip, so small you could not see… I’ve known To lash the magic creature
684 Best Gains’—must have the Losses’… To constitute them’—Gains’—