#AmericanWriters
448 This was a Poet—It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings— And Attar so immense
XIII THE soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.
XXXVII For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ecstasy.
947 Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause? “A Soul has gone to Heaven” I’m answered in a lonesome tone— Is Heaven then a Prison?
XII I ASKED no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled.
105 To hang our head—ostensibly— And subsequent, to find That such was not the posture Of our immortal mind—
117 In rags mysterious as these The shining Courtiers go— Veiling the purple, and the plumes… Veiling the ermine so.
823 Not that We did, shall be the tes… When Act and Will are done But what Our Lord infers We woul… Had We diviner been—
984 ’Tis Anguish grander than Delight ’Tis Resurrection Pain— The meeting Bands of smitten Face We questioned to, again.
544 The Martyr Poets’—did not tell’— But wrought their Pang in syllabl… That when their mortal name be num… Their mortal fate’—encourage Some…
Volcanoes be in Sicily And South America I judge from my Geography - Volcanos nearer here A Lava step at any time
190 He was weak, and I was strong—the… So He let me lead him in— I was weak, and He was strong the… So I let him lead me—Home.
889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep
296 One Year ago’—jots what? God’—spell the word! I’—can’t’— Was’t Grace? Not that’— Was’t Glory? That’—will do’—
723 It tossed—and tossed— A little Brig I knew—o’ertook by… It spun—and spun— And groped delirious, for Morn—