How very sad it is to have a confiding nature, one’s hopes and feelings are quite at the mercy of all who come along; and how very desirable to be a stolid individual, whose hopes and aspirations are safe in one’s waistcoat pocket, and that a pocket indeed, and one not to be picked!
Here is a little forest Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum; Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!
I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf.
My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word.
Apparently with no surprise To any happy Flower The Frost beheads it at its play – In accidental power – The blonde Assassin passes on – The Sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another Day For an Approving God.
Expectation is contentment – Gain satiety.
She died – this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.
You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.
The only secret people keep is immortality.
A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.
MY river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I ’ll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks, – Say, sea, Take me!
They say that ‘home is where the heart is.’ I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.
They say that “Time assuages” – Time never did assuage – An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age – Time is a Test of Trouble – But not a Remedy – If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady.
Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!
I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious.
To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie – True Poems flee –.
I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
THE soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, – Her visitor no more.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!
Pain – has an Element of Blank It cannot recollect When it begun – or if there were a time when it was not – It has no Future – but itself – Its Infinite contain Its Past – enlightened to perceive New Periods – of Pain.