Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.
I felt a Cleaving in my Mind- As if my Brain had split- I tried to match it- Seam by Seam- But could not make it fit.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant – Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth’s superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind –.
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.
Celebrity is the chastisement of merit and the punishment of talent.
Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.
You cannot put a fire out! A thing that can ignite can go itself- without a flame- E’en through the darkest night!
Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea Past the houses, past the headlands Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?
The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, – The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity.
There’s a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found? You’ll know it by the rows of stars around it’s forehead bound. A rich man might not notice it; yet to my frugal eye of more esteem than ducats. Oh! Find it, sir, for me!
The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.
Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun – if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.
Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.
To see her is a picture- To hear her is a tune- To know her an Intemperance As innocent as June- To know her not-Affliction- To own her for a Friend A warmth as near as if the the Sun Were shining in your Hand.
This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go –.