A poet writ a song of May That checked his breath awhile; He kept it for a summer day, Then spake with half a smile: “Oh, little song of purity, Of mystic to-and-fro, You are so much a part of me I dare not let you go.” And so he made a sister-song With more of cunning art; But held the first his whole life long Deep hidden in his heart.
Unconquerably, men venture on the quest And seek an ocean amplitude unsailed, Cold, virgin, awful. Scorning ease and rest, And heedless of the heroes who have failed, They face the ice floes with a dauntless zest. The polar quest! Life’s offer to the strong! To pass beyond the pale, to do...
Not drowsihood and dreams and mere idless, Nor yet the blessedness of strength regained, Alone are in what men call sleep. The past, My unsuspected soul, my parents’ voice, The generations of my forbears, yea, The very will of God himself are there And potent-working: so that many a doubt Is...
Unconquerably, men venture on the quest And seek an ocean amplitude unsailed, Cold, virgin, awful. Scorning ease and rest, And heedless of the heroes who have failed, They face the ice floes with a dauntless zest. The polar quest! Life’s offer to the strong! To pass beyond the pale, to do...
I saw a picture once by Angelo. “Unfinished,” said the critic; “done in youth;” And that was all, no thought of praise, forsooth! He was informed, and doubtless it was so. And yet, I let an hour of dreaming go The way of all time, touched to tears and ruth, Passion and joy, the prick of...
A viewless thing is the wind, But its strength is mightier far Than a phalanxed host in battle line, Than the limbs of a Samson are. And a viewless thing is Love, And a name that vanisheth; But her strength is the wind’s wild strength above, For she conquers shame and Death.
