Fountain head and source of rivers,Dew-cloth, dream drapery,And napkin spread by fays;Drifting meadow of the air,Where bloom the dasied banks and violets,And in whose fenny labyrinthThe bittern booms and heron wades;Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers,Bear only purfumes and the scentOf healing herbs to just men’s fields!
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach,Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.My sole employment is, and scrupulous care,To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,—Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides.I have but few companions on the shore:They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea;Yet…
Spirits and elementsHave their descents.Night and day, year on year,High and low, far and near,These are our own aspects,These are our own regrets.Ye gods of the shore,Who abide evermore,I see you far headland,Stretching on either hand;I hear the sweet evening soundsFrom your undecaying grounds;Cheat me no more with time,Take me to your clime.
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,And will not mind to hit their proper targe.Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,What care I for…
The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;The steed must rest beneath the hill;But swiftly still our fortunes paceTo find us out in every place.The vessel, though her masts be firm,Beneath her copper bears a worm;Around the cape, across the line,Till fields of ice her course confine;It matters not how smooth the breeze,How shallow or how…
My thoughts like stubble floating in the windAnd of such fineness as October airs,There after harvest could I glean my lifeA richer harvest reaping without toil,And weaving gorgeous fancies at my willIn subtler webs than finest summer haze.
The work we choose should be our own,God leaves alone.If with light head erect I sing,Though all the Muses lend their force,From my poor love of anything,The verse is weak and shallow as its source.But if with bended neck I gropeListening behind me for my wit,With faith superior to hope,More anxious to keep back than…
I will abide that other day,Those other lands ye tell.Has time no leisure left for these,The acts that ye rehearse?Is not eternity a leaseFor better deeds than verse?‘Tis sweet to hear of heroes dead,To know them still alive,But sweeter if we earn their bread,And in us they survive.Our life should feed the springs of fameWith…
Fountain-head and source of rivers,Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,And napkin spread by fays;Drifting meadow of the air,Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,And in whose fenny labyrinthThe bittern booms and heron wades;Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,Bear only perfumes and the scentOf healing herbs to just men’s fields!
Which were easier to state,All my love or all my hate.Surely, surely, thou wilt trust meWhen I say thou dost disgust me.O, I hate thee with a hateThat would fain annihilate;Yet sometimes against my will,My dear friend, I love thee still.It were treason to our love,And a sin to God above,One iota to abateOf a…
