The lover of child Marjory
Had one white hour of life brim full;
Now the old nurse, the rocking sea,
Hath him to lull.
The daughter of child Marjory-
Hath in her veins, to beat and run,
The glad indomitable sea,
The strong white sun.
– A Sea Child by William Bliss Carman
WHITE Iris was a princess
In a kingdom long ago,
Mysterious as moonlight
And silent as the snow.
She drew the world in wonder
And swayed it with desire,
Ere Babylon was builded
Or a stone laid in Tyre.
Yet here within my garden
Her loveliness appears,
Undimmed by any sorrow
Of all the tragic years.
How kind that earth should
Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!
–
Heed not tho’ none should call thee fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
–
True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart
O Dearer far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!
Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With
Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay,
And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.
–
Though I, alas! may ne’er enjoy
The promise in thy song;
A charm, ‘that’ thought can not destroy,
Doth to thy strain belong.
–
Methinks that in my dying hour
Thy song would still be dear,
And with
Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved
To scorn the declaration,
That sometimes I in thee have loved
My fancy’s own creation.
…
Imagination needs must stir;
Dear Maid, this truth believe,
Minds that have nothing to confer
Find little to perceive.
…
Be pleased that nature made thee fit
To feed my heart’s devotion,
By laws to which all
A Burdock — clawed my Gown —
Not Burdock’s — blame —
But mine —
Who went too near
The Burdock’s Den —
…
A Bog — affronts my shoe —
What else have Bogs — to do —
The only Trade they know —
The splashing Men!
Ah, pity — then!
…
‘Tis Minnows can despise!
The Elephant’s — calm eyes
Look
A Cap of Lead across the sky
Was tight and surly drawn
We could not find the mighty Face
The Figure was withdrawn —
–
A Chill came up as from a shaft
Our noon became a well
A Thunder storm combines the charms
Of Winter and of Hell.
A Day! Help! Help! Another Day!
Your prayers, oh Passer by!
From such a common ball as this
Might date a Victory!
From marshallings as simple
The flags of nations swang.
Steady — my soul: What issues
Upon thine arrow hang!
– Emily Dickinson
A Dew sufficed itself —
And satisfied a Leaf
And felt “how vast a destiny” —
“How trivial is Life!”
The Sun went out to work —
The Day went out to play
And not again that Dew be seen
By Physiognomy
Whether by Day Abducted
Or emptied by the Sun
Into the Sea in passing
Eternally unknown
Attested to this
A Drop Fell on the Apple Tree —
Another — on the Roof —
A Half a Dozen kissed the Eaves —
And made the Gables laugh —
A few went out to help the Brook
That went to help the Sea —
Myself Conjectured were they Pearls —
What Necklace could be —
The Dust replaced,
A Dying Tiger — moaned for Drink —
I hunted all the Sand —
I caught the Dripping of a Rock
And bore it in my Hand —
…
His Mighty Balls — in death were thick —
But searching — I could see
A Vision on the Retina
Of Water — and of me —
…
‘Twas not
A Field of Stubble, lying sere
Beneath the second Sun —
Its Toils to Brindled People thrust —
Its Triumphs — to the Bin —
Accosted by a timid Bird
Irresolute of Alms —
Is often seen — but seldom felt,
On our New England Farms —
– Emily Dickinson
A full fed Rose on meals of Tint
A Dinner for a Bee
In process of the Noon became –
Each bright Mortality
The Forfeit is of Creature fair
Itself, adored before
Submitting for our unknown sake
To be esteemed no more —
– Emily Dickinson
A fuzzy fellow, without feet,
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance,
And his Complexion, dun!
Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, upon a bough,
From which he doth descend in plush
Upon the Passer-by!
All this in summer.
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence —
And struts in sewing silk!
Then, finer
A great Hope fell
You heard no noise
The Ruin was within
Oh cunning wreck that told no tale
And let no Witness in
The mind was built for mighty Freight
For dread occasion planned
How often foundering at Sea
Ostensibly, on Land
A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered
A Lady red-amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms-
Sweep vale-and hill-and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird-
In such a little while!
And yet, how
A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human naturefeels.
It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without
A little bread – a crust – a crumb –
A little trust – a demijohn –
Can keep the soul alive –
Not portly, mind! but breathing – warm –
Conscious – as old Napoleon,
The night before the Crown!
A modest lot – A fame petite –
A brief Campaign of sting and sweet
Is
A little Dog that wags his tail
And knows no other joy
Of such a little Dog am I
Reminded by a Boy
Who gambols all the living Day
Without an earthly cause
Because he is a little Boy
I honestly suppose –
The Cat that in the Corner dwells
Her martial Day forgot
The Mouse but a Tradition
