That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious Tis almost consequence, Is the eclat of death.
My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun.
We cherish all the past, we glide a-down the present, awake yet dreaming; but the future of ours together – there the bird sings loudest, and the sun shines always there...
Fulfilling absolute decree in casual simplicity.
No weight nor mass nor beauty of execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought.
One note from one bird is better than a million words...
DAWN. When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It ’s time to smooth the hair And get the dimples ready, And wonder we could care For that old faded midnight That frightened but an hour.
As if the chart were given.
I meant to have but modest needs, Such as content, and heaven;.
But since the last included both, It would suffice my prayer But just for one to stipulate, And grace would grant the pair.
And so, upon this wise I prayed, – Great Spirit, give to me A heaven not so large as yours, But large enough for me.
And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away, – The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay!
This quiet dust was gentlemen and ladies.
We are the only poets,” Emily told Susan, “and everyone else is prose.
Remember and care for me sometimes, and scatter a fragrant flower in this wilderness life of mine by writing me.
When the best is gone, I know that other things are not of consequence. The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.
He lived where dreams were sown. His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so.
Our summer made her light escape into the beautiful.
REMORSE. Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir, – A presence of departed acts At window and at door. It’s past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch. Remorse is cureless, – the disease Not even God can heal; For ‘t is his institution, – The complement of hell.
If you were coming in the fall, I’d brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. If I could see you in a year, I’d wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. If only centuries delayed, I’d count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen’s land. If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I’d toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.
This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky, before the sun rises, so let us keep fast hold of hands, that when the birds begin, none of us be missing.