#AmericanWriters
The nearest dream recedes, unreali… The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race;
464 The power to be true to You, Until upon my face The Judgment push his Picture— Presumptuous of Your Place—
How lonesome the Wind must feel N… When people have put out the Ligh… And everything that has an Inn Closes the shutter and goes in— How pompous the Wind must feel No…
Our journey had advanced; Our feet were almost come To that odd fork in Being’s road, Eternity by term. Our pace took sudden awe,
810 Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
968 Fitter to see Him, I may be For the long Hindrance—Grace—to… With Summers, and with Winters, g… Some passing Year—A trait bestow
634 You’ll know Her—by Her Foot— The smallest Gamboge Hand With Fingers—where the Toes shoul… Would more affront the Sand—
977 Besides this May We know There is Another— How fair
759 He fought like those Who’ve nough… Bestowed Himself to Balls As One who for a further Life Had not a further Use—
It dropped so low—in my Regard— I heard it hit the Ground— And go to pieces on the Stones At bottom of my Mind— Yet blamed the Fate that flung it…
669 No Romance sold unto Could so enthrall a Man As the perusal of His Individual One—
922 Those who have been in the Grave… Those who begin Today— Equally perish from our Practise— Death is the other way—
631 Ourselves were wed one summer’—dea… Your Vision’—was in June’— And when Your little Lifetime fai… I wearied’—too’—of mine’—
804 No Notice gave She, but a Change… No Message, but a Sigh— For Whom, the Time did not suffic… That She should specify.
614 In falling Timbers buried— There breathed a Man— Outside—the spades—were plying— The Lungs—within—