Blight
Give me truths, For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition. If I knew Only the herbs and simples of the wood, Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, and pimpernel, Blue-vetch, and trillium,
Celestial Love
Higher far, Upward, into the pure realm, Over sun or star, Over the flickering Dæmon film, Thou must mount for love,- Into vision which all form In one only form dissolves; In a region
Painting And Sculpture
The sinful painter drapes his goddess warm, Because she still is naked, being drest; The godlike sculptor will not so deform Beauty, which bones and flesh enough invest.
Days
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will,
Monadnoc
Thousand minstrels woke within me, “Our music’s in the hills; “- Gayest pictures rose to win me, Leopard-colored rills. Up!-If thou knew’st who calls To twilight parks of beech and pine, High over the
Merops
What care I, so they stand the same,- Things of the heavenly mind,- How long the power to give them fame Tarries yet behind? Thus far to-day your favors reach, O fair, appeasing Presences!
Etienne de la Boéce
I serve you not, if you I follow, Shadow-like, o’er hill and hollow, And bend my fancy to your leading, All too nimble for my treading. When the pilgrimage is done, And we’ve the
Sursum Corda
Seek not the Spirit, if it hide, Inexorable to thy zeal: Baby, do not whine and chide; Art thou not also real? Why should’st thou stoop to poor excuse? Turn on the Accuser roundly;
To J. W
Set not thy foot on graves; Hear what wine and roses say; The mountain chase, the summer waves, The crowded town, thy feet may well delay. Set not thy foot on graves; Nor seek
Tact
What boots it, thy virtue, What profit thy parts, While one thing thou lackest, The art of all arts! The only credentials, Passport to success, Opens castle and parlor,- Address, man, Address. The maiden
The Day's Ration
When I was born, From all the seas of strength Fate filled a chalice, Saying, This be thy portion, child; this chalice, Less than a lily’s, thou shalt daily draw From my great arteries;
Merlin
I Thy trivial harp will never please Or fill my craving ear; Its chords should ring as blows the breeze, Free, peremptory, clear. No jingling serenader’s art, Nor tinkle of piano strings, Can make
Musketaquid
Because I was content with these poor fields, Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams, And found a home in haunts which others scorned, The partial wood-gods overpaid my love, And granted me the
To Ellen, At The South
The green grass is growing, The morning wind is in it, ‘Tis a tune worth the knowing, Though it change every minute. ‘Tis a tune of the spring, Every year plays it over, To
Initial Love
Venus, when her son was lost, Cried him up and down the coast, In hamlets, palaces, and parks, And told the truant by his marks, Golden curls, and quiver, and bow;- This befell long