#AmericanWriters
323 As if I asked a common Alms, And in my wondering hand A Stranger pressed a Kingdom, And I, bewildered, stand—
A darting fear—a pomp—a tear— A waking on a morn To find that what one waked for, Inhales the different dawn.
150 She died—this was the way she died… And when her breath was done Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun—
Water makes many Beds For those averse to sleep - Its awful chamber open stands - Its Curtains blandly sweep - Abhorrent is the Rest
A clock stopped—not the mantel’s Geneva’s farthest skill Can’t put the puppet bowing That just now dangled still. An awe came on the trinket!
912 Peace is a fiction of our Faith— The Bells a Winter Night Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound That never did alight.
907 Till Death’—is narrow Loving’— The scantest Heart extant Will hold you till your privilege Of Finiteness’—be spent’—
8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables
296 One Year ago’—jots what? God’—spell the word! I’—can’t’— Was’t Grace? Not that’— Was’t Glory? That’—will do’—
Is it too late to touch you, Dear… We this moment knew - Love Marine and Love terrene - Love celestial too -
651 So much Summer Me for showing Illegitimate— Would a Smile’s minute bestowing
331 While Asters— On the Hill— Their Everlasting fashions—set— And Covenant Gentians—Frill!
517 He parts Himself’—like Leaves’— And then’—He closes up’— Then stands upon the Bonnet Of Any Buttercup’—
A little bread—a crust—a crumb— A little trust—a demijohn— Can keep the soul alive— Not portly, mind! but breathing—wa… Conscious—as old Napoleon,
Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild In forest and the hill