The Soul should always stand ajar.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there 's a pair of us--don't tell!
They 'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go.
The past is not a package one can lay away.
There is a Zone whose even Years
No Solstice interrupt -
Whose Sun constructs perpetual Noon
Whose perfect Seasons wait -
Whose Summer set in Summer, till
The Centuries of June
And Centuries of August cease
And Consciousness -- is Noon.
Heaven is so far of the mind that were the mind dissolved -- the site of it by architect could not again be proved.
March is the month of expectation,
The things we do not know,
The Persons of Prognostication
Are coming now.
We try to sham becoming firmness,
But pompous joy
Betrays us, as his first betrothal
Betrays a boy.
Superiority to Fate Is difficult to gain 'Tis not conferred of Any But possible to earn.
I confess that I love him, I rejoice that I love him, I thank the maker of Heaven and Earth that gave him to me. The exultation floods me.
Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.
I felt it shelter to speak to you.
Bring me the sunset in a cup.
I must go in, the fog is rising.
This is my letter to the world That never wrote to me.
This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me, the simple news that nature told, with tender majesty. Her message is committed, to hands I cannot see; for love of her, sweet countrymen, judge tenderly of me.
Love is everything. And that's all we know about it.
I tasted life.
If your Nerve, deny you -- Go above your Nerve.
Those who have not found the heaven below, will fail of it above.
Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.
The Heart wants what it wants -- or else it does not care.
Truth is so rare, it is delightful to tell it.
Pardon my sanity in a world insane.
One step at a time is all it takes to get you there.
Who loves you most, and loves you best, and thinks of you when others rest? 'Tis Emilie.
How vain it seems to write, when one knows how to feel -- how much more near and dear to sit beside you, talk with you, hear the tones of your voice...Give me strength, Susie, write me of hope and love, and of hearts that endure.
Sweet hour, blessed hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss, and whisper goodbye again.
The days will have more hours while you are gone away.
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise.
That Love is all there is
Is all we know of Love,
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.
Your absence insanes me so -- I do not feel so peaceful, when you are gone from me.
Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you'll never go away, oh you never will.
I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still.
I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still... I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose.
they discarded --
to endure --.
Each life converges to some centre expressed or still.
There's nothing wicked in Shakespeare, and if there is I don't want to know it.
Split the Lark--and you'll find the Music, Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled.
There are depths in every Consciousness, from which we cannot rescue ourselves -- to which none can go with us.
The brain is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include With ease, and you beside.
At least to pray is left -- is left Oh Jesus -- in the Air -- I know not which thy chamber is -- I'm knocking everywhere.
His mind of man, a secret makes I meet him with a start he carries a circumference in which I have no part.
November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.
Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast--
Grant God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest!
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white--
I should not fear the foe then--
I should not fear the fight!
Till I loved I never lived.
Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb -- or Dome of Worm -- or Porch of Gnome -- or some Elf's Catacomb?
I hope you're very careful working, eating and drinking when the heat is so great -- there are temptations there which at home you are free from -- beware the juicy fruits, and the cooling ades, and cordials, and do not eat ice-cream, it is so very dangerous.
Suspense-is Hostiler than Death-Death- tho soever Broad, Is just Death, and cannot increase- Suspense-does not conclude.
Two Seasons, it is said, exist-
The Summer of the Just,
And this of Ours, diversified
With Prospect, and with Frost-
May not our Second with its First
So infinite compare
That We but recollect the one
The other to prefer?
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
There is no frigate like a book.
There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away.
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.
Anger as soon as fed is dead- 'Tis starving makes it fat.
I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted.
One need not be a Chamber -- to be Haunted -- One need not be a House -- The Brain -- has Corridors -- surpassing Material Place -- Far safer, of a Midnight -- meeting External Ghost -- Than an Interior -- Confronting -- That cooler -- Host. Far safer, through an Abbey -- gallop -- The Stones a'chase -- Than Moonless -- One's A'self encounter -- In lonesome place -- Ourself -- behind ourself -- Concealed -- Should startle -- most.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
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 .
A little Madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King.
A light exists in Spring
Not present in the year
at any other period
When March is scarcely here.
There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
There's a certain Slant of light, Winter afternoons-- That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes-- Heavenly Hurt, it gives us-- We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are.... When it comes, the Landscape listens-- Shadows--hold their breath-- When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death.
There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away.
There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
The truth must dazzle gradually or every man be blind.
Tell all the truth but tell it slant.
The brain is deeper than the sea.
Saying nothing sometimes says the most.
I dwell in possibility.
The sun just touched the morning; the morning, happy thing, supposed that he had come to dwell, and life would be all spring.
We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.
Open your life wide, and take me in forever. I will never be tired-I will never be noisy when you want to be still...nobody else will see me, but you-but that is enough-I shall not want any more.
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.
I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name.
A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day.
Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn; Men eat of it and die.
Luck is not chance, it's toil; fortune's expensive smile is earned.
Behavior is what a man does, not what he thinks, feels, or believes.
Forever is composed of nows.
Forever is composed of Nows
'Tis not a different time
Except for Infiniteness
And Latitude of Home.
My friends are my estate.
My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them. They tell me those who were poor early have different views of gold. I don't know how that is. God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him.
Success is counted sweetest by those who never succeed.
To love is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
They might not need me; but they might. I'll let my head be just in sight; a smile as small as mine might be precisely their necessity.
Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.
People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
Fortune befriends the bold.
A wounded deer leaps the highest.
A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell; 'Tis but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still. The smitten rock that gushes, The trampled steel that springs,, A cheek is always redder Just where the hectic stings Mirth is mail of anguish, In which its cautious arm Lest anybody spy the blood And, you're hurt exclaim.
Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.
I have a brother and sister; my mother does not care for thought, and father, too busy with his briefs to notice what we do. He buys me many books, but begs me not to read them, because he fears they joggle the mind.
I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The Nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes -- The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs -- The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round -- Of Ground, or Air, or Ought -- A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone -- This is the Hour of Lead -- Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow -- First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go --.
Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.
Dying is a wild night and a new road.
Tell the truth, but tell it slant.
I argue thee that love is life. And life hath immortality.