#AmericanWriters
898 How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom
975 The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere—
991 She sped as Petals of a Rose Offended by the Wind— A frail Aristocrat of Time Indemnity to find—
734 If He were living—dare I ask— And how if He be dead— And so around the Words I went— Of meeting them—afraid—
Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,
A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period. When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad
913 And this of all my Hopes This, is the silent end Bountiful colored, my Morning ros… Early and sere, its end
The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem
976 Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust. “Dissolve” says Death—The Spirit… I have another Trust”—
592 What care the Dead, for Chanticle… What care the Dead for Day? ’Tis late your Sunrise vex their… And Purple Ribaldry—of Morning
52 Whether my bark went down at sea— Whether she met with gales— Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails—
792 Through the strait pass of sufferi… The Martyrs—even—trod. Their feet—upon Temptations— Their faces—upon God—
807 Expectation—is Contentment— Gain—Satiety— But Satiety—Conviction Of Necessity
732 She rose to His Requirement—dropt The Playthings of Her Life To take the honorable Work Of Woman, and of Wife—
Had we our senses But perhaps ’tis well they’re not… So intimate with Madness He’s liable with them Had we the eyes without our Head—