#AmericanWriters
736 Have any like Myself Investigating March, New Houses on the Hill descried— And possibly a Church—
838 Impossibility, like Wine Exhilarates the Man Who tastes it; Possibility Is flavorless—Combine
901 Sweet, to have had them lost For news that they be saved— The nearer they departed Us The nearer they, restored,
617 Don’t put up my Thread and Needle… I’ll begin to Sew When the Birds begin to whistle— Better Stitches—so—
203 He forgot—and I—remembered— ’Twas an everyday affair— Long ago as Christ and Peter— “Warmed them” at the “Temple fire…
Let me not mar that perfect Dream By an Auroral stain But so adjust my daily Night That it will come again. Not when we know, the Power accos…
Much Madness is divinest Sense - To a discerning Eye - Much Sense– the starkest Madness… ’Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -
That only lasts an hour How much '— how little '— is Within our power
525 I think the Hemlock likes to stan… Upon a Marge of Snow— It suits his own Austerity— And satisfies an awe
154 Except to Heaven, she is nought. Except for Angels—lone. Except to some wide-wandering Bee A flower superfluous blown.
The Hills in Purple syllables The Day’s Adventures tell To little Groups of Continents Just going Home from School.
How Human Nature dotes On what it can’t detect. The moment that a Plot is plumbed Prospective is extinct - Prospective is the friend
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense
401 What Soft—Cherubic Creatures— These Gentlewomen are— One would as soon assault a Plush… Or violate a Star—
916 His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid.