A few other little things; some in sprung rhythm, with various other experiments. |
All Life death does end and each day dies with sleep |
All trádes, their gear and tackle and trim. |
And my lament / Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent / To dearest him that lives alas! away. |
Birds build - but not I build; no, but strain,/ Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. / Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain. |
Glory be to God for dappled things for skies of couple-color as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim |
I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon. |
I have desired to go / Where springs not fail, / To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail / And a few lilies blow, |
I see / The lost are like this, and their scourge to be / As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse. |
Just for lack / Of answer the eagerer a-wanting Jessy or Jack / There God to aggrandize, God to glorify. |
Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!/ O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! / The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there! |
Nothing is so beautiful as spring -- when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing. |
Now it is the virtue of design, pattern, or inscape to be distinctive and it is the vice of distinctiveness to become queer. |
O if we but knew what we do when we delve or hew -- hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender to touch, her being so slender, that like this sleek and seeing ball but a prick will make no eye at all, where we, even where we mean to mend her we end her, when we hew or delve: after-comers cannot guess the beauty been. |
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall / Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap / May who ne'er hung there. |