#AmericanWriters
889 Crisis is a Hair Toward which the forces creep Past which forces retrograde If it come in sleep
777 The Loneliness One dare not sound… And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size—
836 Truth — is as old as God — His Twin identity And will endure as long as He A Co-Eternity —
I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity. Nor had I time to love, but since
XI MUCH madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority
192 Poor little Heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care! Proud little Heart!
753 My Soul—accused me—And I quailed… As Tongue of Diamond had reviled All else accused me—and I smiled— My Soul—that Morning—was My frie…
876 It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone Enclosed ’twas not of Rail A Consciousness its Acre, and It held a Human Soul.
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every Bondage be, Thou sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
760 Most she touched me by her mutenes… Most she won me by the way She presented her small figure— Plea itself—for Charity—
815 The Luxury to apprehend The Luxury 'twould be To look at Thee a single time An Epicure of Me
The butterfly obtains But little sympathy Though favorably mentioned In Entomology - Because he travels freely
The Grass so little has to do— A Sphere of simple Green— With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain— And stir all day to pretty Tunes
652 A Prison gets to be a friend— Between its Ponderous face And Ours—a Kinsmanship express— And in its narrow Eyes—
XVII WHEN night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair