Who drives the horses of the sun
Shall lord it but a day;
Better the lowly deed were done,
And kept the humble way.
The rust will find the sword of fame,
The dust will hide the crown;
Ay, none shall nail so high his name
Time will not tear it down.
The happiest heart that ever beat
Was in some quiet breast
That...
Dost deem him weak that owns his strength is tried?
Nay, we may safely lean on him that grieves:
The pine has immemorially sighed,
The enduring poplar’s are the trembling leaves.
To feel, and bow the head, is not to fear;
To cheat with jest—that is the coward’s art:
Beware the laugh that battles back the tear;
He ’s false to all...
Oak leaves are big as the mouse’s ear,
So, farmer, go plant. But the frost—
Beware! the witch o’ the year,
See that her palm be crossed.
The bee is abroad, and the ant;
Spider is busy; ho, farmer, go plant.
The winds blow soft from the glazy sea,
So, merchant, rig ship. But the wave—
Beware! salt water can be
A highway,...
I
the birds have hid, the winds are low,
The brake is awake, the grass aglow:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over,
And evening come.
The heavy beetle spreads her wings,
The toad has the road, the cricket sings:
The bat is the rover,
No bee on the clover,
The day is over,
And...
The skilful listener, he, methinks, may hear
The grass blades clash in sunny field together,
The roses kissing, and the lily, whether
It joy or sorrow in the summer’s ear,
The jewel dew-bells of the mead ring clear
When morning lightly moves them in June weather,
The flocked hours flitting by on stealthy feather,
The last leaves’ wail at...
Whither leads this pathway, little one?—
It runs just on and on, is never done.
Whither leads this pathway, mistress fair?—
That path to town, sir; to the village square.
Whither leads this pathway, father old?—
To the white quiet of the churchyard fold.
Nature reads not our labels, “great” and “small”;
Accepts she one and all
Who, striving, win and hold the vacant place;
All are of royal race.
Him, there, rough-cast, with rigid arm and limb,
The Mother moulded him,
Of his rude realm ruler and demigod,
Lord of the rock and clod.
With Nature is no “better” and no “worse,”...
Who drives the horses of the sun
Shall lord it but a day;
Better the lowly deed were done,
And kept the humble way.
The rust will find the sword of fame,
The dust will hide the crown;
Ay, none shall nail so high his name
Time will not tear it down.
The happiest heart that ever beat
Was in some quiet breast
That...
“Let us a little permit Nature to take her own way: she better understands her own affairs than we.”
—MONTAIGNE, Of Experience.
NATURE reads not our labels, “great” and “small”;
Accepts she one and all
Who, striving, win and hold the vacant place;
All are of royal race.
Him, there, rough-cast, with rigid arm and limb,
The...
(In Memoriam, May 30)
I.
TOLL the slow bell,
Toll the low bell,
Toll, toll,
Make dole
For them that wrought so well.
Come, come,
With muffled drum
And wailing lorn
Of dolorous horn;
The solemn measure slow
Toll and beat and blow;
Put out all glories that adorn
The sweet, unheeding morn...
