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The prosperous and beautiful To me seem not to wear The yoke of conscience masterful, Which galls me everywhere. I cannot shake off the god; On my neck he makes his seat; I look at my face in the glass,…
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? At rich men’s tables eaten bread and pulse? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? And loved so well a high…
Why should I keep holiday When other men have none? Why but because, when these are gay, I sit and mourn alone? And why, when mirth unseals all tongues, Should mine alone be dumb? Ah! late I spoke to silent…
I serve you not, if you I follow, Shadow-like, o’er hill and hollow, And bend my fancy to your leading, All too nimble for my treading. When the pilgrimage is done, And we’ve the landscape overrun, I am bitter, vacant,…
Himself it was who wrote His rank, and quartered his own coat. There is no king nor sovereign state That can fix a hero’s rate; Each to all is venerable, Cap-a-pie invulnerable, Until he write, where all eyes rest, Slave…
Though loath to grieve The evil time’s sole patriot, I cannot leave My honied thought For the priest’s cant, Or statesman’s rant. If I refuse My study for their politique, Which at the best is trick, The angry Muse Puts…
The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel; And the former called the latter ‘Little Prig.’ Bun replied, ‘You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year…
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 To twilight parks of beech and pine, High over the river intervals, Above the ploughman’s highest…
As sunbeams stream through liberal space, And nothing jostle or displace, So waved the pine tree through my thought, And fanned the dreams it never brought. “Whether is better the gift or the donor? Come to me,” Quoth the pine…
I When the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones, Who speeds to the woodland walks? To birds and trees who talks? Cæsar of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home. He goes to…