Category Poets

These are the Nights that Beetles love — From Eminence remote Drives ponderous perpendicular His figure intimate The terror of the Children The merriment of men Depositing his Thunder He hoists abroad again — A Bomb upon the Ceiling Is…

These are the days that Reindeer love And pranks the Northern star — This is the Sun’s objective, And Finland of the Year.

There’s the Battle of Burgoyne — Over, every Day, By the Time that Man and Beast Put their work away “Sunset” sounds majestic — But that solemn War Could you comprehend it You would chastened stare —

There is a strength in proving that it can be borne Although it tear — What are the sinews of such cordage for Except to bear The ship might be of satin had it not to fight — To walk…

There is no Silence in the Earth — so silent As that endured Which uttered, would discourage Nature And haunt the World.

There is another Loneliness That many die without — Not want of friend occasions it Or circumstances of Lot But nature, sometimes, sometimes thought And whoso it befall Is richer than could be revealed By mortal numeral —

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…

There is a solitude of space A solitude of sea A solitude of death, but these Society shall be Compared with that profounder site That polar privacy A soul admitted to itself — Finite infinity.

There comes an hour when begging stops, When the long interceding lips Perceive their prayer is vain. “Thou shalt not” is a kinder sword Than from a disappointing God “Disciple, call again.”

There comes a warning like a spy A shorter breath of Day A stealing that is not a stealth And Summers are away —