Dropped into the Ether Acre —
Wearing the Sod Gown —
Bonnet of Everlasting Laces —
Brooch — frozen on —
Horses of Blonde — and Coach of Silver —
Baggage a strapped Pearl —
Journey of Down — and Whip of Diamond —
Riding to meet the Earl —
-
-
Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise
Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode,
Where hope and he part company —
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to...Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
That throng our gladsome earth;
Say not the bounteous gift of life
Alone is nothing worth.
What though with mournful memories
They sigh not for the past?
What though their ever joyous...Upon his canvas Nature starts to life,
Clear waters flow, majestic trees arise, --
The earth and air with beauty's shapes are rife,
And over all there bend his glorious skies.
Yes, this is Nature -- living, breathing, warm,
Ere yet her face...Dust is the only Secret —
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his "native town."
Nobody know "his Father" —
Never was a Boy —
Hadn't any playmates,
Or "Early history" —
Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!...Oh, some folk think vice-royalty is festive and hilarious,
The duties of an A.D.C. are manifold and various,
So listen, whilst I tell in song
The duties of an aide-de-cong.
Whatsoever betide
To the Governor's side
We must stick -- or the public would eat him --
For each bounder we see...The sun kept setting, setting still ;
No hue of afternoon
Upon the village I perceived, —
From house to house 't was noon.
The dusk kept dropping, dropping still ;
No dew upon the grass,
But only on my forehead stopped...Dying at my music!
Bubble! Bubble!
Hold me till the Octave's run!
Quick! Burst the Windows!
Ritardando!
Phials left, and the Sun!A poem, where we all perfections find,
Is not the work of a fantastic mind;
There must be care, and time, and skill, and pains;
Not the first head of inexperienced brains.
Yet sometimes artless poets, when the rage
Of a warm fancy does their minds engage,
Puffed with vain pride, presume they understand,...VITAL spark of heav'nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit...