Art is a house that tries to be haunted.
I thought that storm was brief, – The maddest, quickest by; But Nature lost the date of this, And left it in the sky.
Stands the sun so close and mighty That our minds are hot.
And only the waves reply.
I should have had the joy Without the fear to justify, –.
Fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling.
She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer’s eve;.
I like a look of agony, Because I know it ’s true;.
Was dying as he thought, or different; Was it a pleasant day to die, And did the sunshine face his way?
It dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones At bottom of my mind; Yet.
A horror so refined.
To pile like Thunder to its close, Then crumble grand away, While everything created hid – This would be Poetry: Or Love, – the two coeval came – We both and neither prove, Experience either, and consume – For none see God and live.
Some things that fly there be, – Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:.
I know some lonely houses off the road.
I’ll tell you how the sun rose, – A ribbon at a time.
By the time a full compendium of her work appeared in the mid-1950s, she already had been recognized as a towering figure of American literature.
In this short life, that only last an hour merely. How much how little is within our power.
As there are apartments in our own minds that we never enter without apology we should respect the seals of others.
The soul unto itself Is an imperial friend, – Or the most agonizing spy An enemy could send. Secure against its own, No treason it can fear; Itself its sovereign, of itself The soul should stand in awe.
Life is but life, and death but death! Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!
Do I repine, is it all murmuring, or am I sad and lone, and cannot, cannot help it? Sometimes when I do feel so, I think it may be wrong, and that God will punish me by taking you away; for he is very kind to let me write to you, and to give me your sweet letters, but my heart wants more.