It's like the Light —
A fashionless Delight —
It's like the Bee —
A dateless — Melody —
It's like the Woods —
Private — Like the Breeze —
Phraseless — yet it stirs
The proudest Trees —
It's like the Morning —
Best — when it's done —
And the...
It's such a little thing to weep —
So short a thing to sigh —
And yet — by Trades — the size of these
We men and women die!
It's thoughts — and just One Heart —
And Old Sunshine — about —
Make frugal — Ones — Content —
And two or three — for Company —
Upon a Holiday —
Crowded — as Sacrament —
Books — when the Unit —
Spare the Tenant — long eno' —
A Picture — if it Care —
Itself — a...
Its Hour with itself
The Spirit never shows.
What Terror would enthrall the Street
Could Countenance disclose
The Subterranean Freight
The Cellars of the Soul —
Thank God the loudest Place he made
Is license to be still.
Its little Ether Hood
Doth sit upon its Head —
The millinery supple
Of the sagacious God —
Till when it slip away
A nothing at a time —
And Dandelion's Drama
Expires in a stem.
WHILE hisses, groans, cat-calls thro' the pit,
Deplore the hapless poet's want of wit:
J—n W—ts, from silence bursing in a rage,
Cried, 'Men are mad who write in such an age.'
'Not so,' replied his friend, a sneering blade,
'The poet's only dull, the printer's mad.'
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy...
Jesus! thy Crucifix
Enable thee to guess
The smaller size!
Jesus! thy second face
Mind thee in Paradise
Of ours!
Born of a thoroughbred English race,
Well proportioned and closely knit,
Neat, slim figure and handsome face,
Always ready and always fit,
Hardy and wiry of limb and thew,
That was the ne'er-do-well Jim Carew.
One of the sons of the good old land --
Many a year since his like was known...
This was he
Whose shaft of wit had touch'd the epic strain
With poignant power. The Father of the Harp
In his own native vales. He seems to muse
As if those loved retreats did spread themselves
Again before his eye. The sighing wind
Through the long branches of those ancient...