#AmericanWriters
351 I felt my life with both my hands To see if it was there— I held my spirit to the Glass, To prove it possibler—
404 How many Flowers fail in Wood— Or perish from the Hill— Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful—
Yesterday is History, ’Tis so far away - Yesterday is Poetry - ’Tis Philosophy - Yesterday is mystery -
Ended, ere it begun - The Title was scarcely told When the Preface perished from Co… The Story, unrevealed - Had it been mine, to print!
March is the Month of Expectation… The things we do not know - The Persons of prognostication Are coming now - We try to show becoming firmness -
940 On that dear Frame the Years had… Yet precious as the House In which We first experienced Lig… The Witnessing, to Us—
475 Doom is the House without the Doo… ’Tis entered from the Sun— And then the Ladder’s thrown away… Because Escape—is done—
742 Four Trees—upon a solitary Acre— Without Design Or Order, or Apparent Action— Maintain—
965 Denial—is the only fact Perceived by the Denied— Whose Will—a numb significance— The Day the Heaven died—
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
773 Deprived of other Banquet, I entertained Myself— At first—a scant nutrition— An insufficient Loaf—
840 I cannot buy it—’tis not sold— There is no other in the World— Mine was the only one I was so happy I forgot
481 The Himmaleh was known to stoop Unto the Daisy low— Transported with Compassion That such a Doll should grow
645 Bereavement in their death to feel Whom We have never seen— A Vital Kinsmanship import Our Soul and theirs—between—
It struck me every day The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. It burned me in the night,