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We turn not older with years, but newer every day.
How happy I was if I could forget To remember how sad I am Would be an easy adversity But the recollecting of Bloom Keeps making November difficult Till I who was almost bold Lose my way like a…
How fortunate the Grave— All Prizes to obtain— Successful certain, if at last, First Suitor not in vain.
How far is it to Heaven? As far as Death this way— Of River or of Ridge beyond Was no discovery. How far is it to Hell? As far as Death this way— How far left hand the Sepulchre…
“Houses”—so the Wise Men tell me— “Mansions”! Mansions must be warm! Mansions cannot let the tears in, Mansions must exclude the storm! “Many Mansions,” by “his Father,” I don’t know him; snugly built! Could the Children find the way…
Years I had been from home, And now, before the door I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business, – just a life I left,…
His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid. His Labor is a Chant— His Idleness—a Tune— Oh, for a Bee’s experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
His Bill an Auger is, His Head, a Cap and Frill. He laboreth at every Tree A Worm, His utmost Goal.
Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—’tis but a Rind.
Her—”last Poems”— Poets—ended— Silver—perished—with her Tongue— Not on Record—bubbled other, Flute—or Woman— So divine— Not unto its Summer—Morning Robin—uttered Half the Tune— Gushed too free for the Adoring— From the Anglo-Florentine— Late—the Praise— ‘Tis dull—conferring On the Head too High…
Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night Had scarcely deigned to lie— When, stirring, for Belief’s delight, My Bride had slipped away— If ’twas a Dream—made solid—just The Heaven to confirm— Or if Myself were dreamed of Her—…