#AmericanWriters
This is he, who, felled by foes, Sprung harmless up, refreshed by b… He to captivity was sold, But him no prison—bars would hold: Though they sealed him in a rock,
Day! hast thou two faces, Making one place two places? One, by humble farmer seen, Chill and wet, unlighted, mean, Useful only, triste and damp,
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer,… Possessed the land which rendered… Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, appl… Each of these landlords walked ami… Saying, “’Tis mine, my children’s…
Because I was content with these… Low open meads, slender and sluggi… And found a home in haunts which o… The partial wood—gods overpaid my… And granted me the freedom of thei…
I heard or seemed to hear the chid… Say, Pilgrim, why so late and slo… Am I not always here, thy summer… Is not my voice thy music, morn an… My breath thy healthful climate in…
The sun set, but set not his hope: Stars rose; his faith was earlier… Fixed on the enormous galaxy, Deeper and older seemed his eye; And matched his sufferance sublime
Who knows this or that? Hark in the wall to the rat: Since the world was, he has gnawed… Of his wisdom, of his fraud What dost thou know?
Butler, fetch the ruby wine, Which with sudden greatness fills… Pour for me who in my spirit Fail in courage and performance; Bring the philosophic stone,
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
Hast thou named all the birds with… Loved the wood-rose, and left it o… At rich men’s tables eaten bread a… Unarmed, faced danger with a heart… And loved so well a high behavior,
Space is ample, east and west, But two cannot go abreast, Cannot travel in it two: Yonder masterful cuckoo Crowds every egg out of the nest,
Grace, Beauty, and Caprice Build this golden portal; Graceful women, chosen men, Dazzle every mortal. Their sweet and lofty countenance
Higher far, Upward, into the pure realm, Over sun or star, Over the flickering Dæmon film, Thou must mount for love,—
Wise and polite,—and if I drew Their several portraits, you would… Chaucer had no such worthy crew, Nor Boccace in Decameron. We crossed Champlain to Keesevill…
Virtue runs before the muse And defies her skill, She is rapt, and doth refuse To wait a painter’s will. Star—adoring, occupied,