#AmericanWriters
This is the land the sunset washes… These are the banks of the Yellow… Where it rose, or whither it rushe… These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple traff…
An everywhere of silver, With ropes of sand To keep it from effacing The track called land.
806 A Planted Life—diversified With Gold and Silver Pain To prove the presence of the Ore In Particles—'tis when
153 Dust is the only Secret— Death, the only One You cannot find out all about In his “native town.”
The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, ‘T were easier for you To put the water back
Delight becomes pictorial When viewed through pain,— More fair, because impossible That any gain. The mountaln at a given distance
The Grass so little has to do— A Sphere of simple Green— With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain— And stir all day to pretty Tunes
23 I had a guinea golden— I lost it in the sand— And tho’ the sum was simple And pounds were in the land—
I never hear the word 'escape’ Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude. I never hear of prisons broad
439 Undue Significance a starving man… To Food— Far off—He sighs—and therefore—Ho… And therefore—Good—
239 “Heaven”—is what I cannot reach! The Apple on the Tree— Provided it do hopeless—hang— That—"He aven" is—to Me!
657 I dwell in Possibility— A fairer House than Prose— More numerous of Windows— Superior—for Doors—
252 I can wade Grief— Whole Pools of it— I’m used to that— But the least push of Joy
213 Did the Harebell loose her girdle To the lover Bee Would the Bee the Harebell hallow Much as formerly?
395 Reverse cannot befall That fine Prosperity Whose Sources are interior— As soon—Adversity