Is linked unto the glow-worm’s tiny spark;
The eagle soars to heaven in his flight;
And in those realms of space, all bathed in light,
Soar none except the eagle and the lark.
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I.
From thy most meek disciple! Deign once moreEndure me at thy feet, enlighten me,As when upon my boyish head of yore,Midst the rapt circle gathered round thy kneeThy sacred vials of learning thou didst pour.By the large lustre of thy wisdom orbedBe my black doubts illumined and absorbed.II.Oft I recall that golden time when thou,Born…
[Aaron Ben Mier ‘loquitur.’]
Grandson, to bless thy grandchild, I’ll forgetNever that youth and what he did for Prague.Aye, aye, I know! he slurred a certain verseIn such and such a prayer; omitted quiteTo stand erect there where the ritualCommands us rise and bow towards the East;Therefore, the ingrates brand him heterodox,Neglect his memory whose virtue savedEach knave of…
Last night I slept, and when I woke her kiss
Together in my dream, through some dim glade,Where the shy moonbeams scarce dared light our bliss.The air was dank with dew, between the trees,The hidden glow-worms kindled and were spent.Cheek pressed to cheek, the cool, the hot night-breezeMingled ouir hair, our breath, and came and went,As sporting with our passion. Low and deepSpake in mine…
How long, and yet how long,
Master and kings from feudal monarchies,And mock their ancient songWith echoes weak of foreign melodies?That distant isle mist-wreathed,Mantled in unimaginable green,Too long hath been our mistress and our queen.Our fathers have bequeathedToo deep a love for her, our hearts within.She made the whole world ringWith the brave exploits of her children strong,And with the matchless…
The swallows made twitter incessant,
The ways and the woods were made pleasant,And the flowering nooks of the earth.And the sunshine sufficed to rejoice me,And the air was as bracing as wine,And the sky and the shadows and grassesWere enough to make living divine.Then I saw on the ground two gray robins,One with glorious flame-colored vest,‘Neath the shade of some…
(‘Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned; this man is neither simple, sensuous, nor impassioned; therefore he is not a poet’)
When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirredTo study and define–what is a bird,To classify by rote and book, nor failTo mark its structure and to note the scaleWhereon its song might possibly be heard.Thus far, no farther;–so he spake the word.When of a sudden,–hark, the nightingale!Oh deeper, higher than he could divineThat all-unearthly, untaught strain!…