#AmericanWriters
856 There is a finished feeling Experienced at Graves— A leisure of the Future— A Wilderness of Size.
XIV SOME things that fly there be,— Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy. Some things that stay there be,—
42 A Day! Help! Help! Another Day! Your prayers, oh Passer by! From such a common ball as this Might date a Victory!
We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…
60 Like her the Saints retire, In their Chapeaux of fire, Martial as she! Like her the Evenings steal
Of so divine a Loss We enter but the Gain, Indemnity for Loneliness That such a Bliss has been.
You said that I “was Great”'—one… Then “Great” it be’—if that pleas… Or Small’—or any size at all’— Nay’—I’m the size suit Thee’— Tall’—like the Stag’—would that?
21 We lose’—because we win’— Gamblers’—recollecting which Toss their dice again!
957 As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured—
519 ’Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone.
580 I gave myself to Him— And took Himself, for Pay, The solemn contract of a Life Was ratified, this way—
Perhaps I asked too large— I take—no less than skies— For Earths, grow thick as Berries, in my native town— My Basked holds—just—Firmaments—
815 The Luxury to apprehend The Luxury 'twould be To look at Thee a single time An Epicure of Me
514 Her smile was shaped like other sm… The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bi… Did hoist herself, to sing,
623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—