#AmericanWriters
57 To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or I,
862 Light is sufficient to itself— If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day.
567 He gave away his Life— To Us—Gigantic Sum— A trifle—in his own esteem— But magnified—by Fame—
19 A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer’s morn— A flask of Dew—A Bee or two— A Breeze—a caper in the trees—
“Speech”'—is a prank of Parliamen… “Tears”'—is a trick of the nerve’— But the Heart with the heaviest f… Doesn’t’—always’—move’—
373 I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way— And so I deck, a little,
Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought A further force of life
They say that ‘time assuages,’— Time never did assuage; An actual suffering strengthens, As sinews do, with age. Time is a test of trouble,
343 My Reward for Being, was This. My premium—My Bliss— An Admiralty, less— A Sceptre—penniless—
751 My Worthiness is all my Doubt— His Merit—all my fear— Contrasting which, my quality Do lowlier—appear—
782 There is an arid Pleasure— As different from Joy— As Frost is different from Dew— Like element—are they—
A little Dog that wags his tail And knows no other joy Of such a little Dog am I Reminded by a Boy Who gambols all the living Day
I’m saying every day “If I should be a Queen, tomorrow… I’d do this way — And so I deck, a little, If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
859 A Doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find.
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense