Say, thou modern-winged antique,
Was thy mistress ever sick?
In each heaving of thy wing
Thou dost health and leisure bring,
Thou dost waive disease and pain
And resume new life again.
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O Nature! I do not aspire
To be a meteor in thy sky,Or comet that may range on high;Only a zephyr that may blowAmong the reeds by the river low;Give me thy most privy placeWhere to run my airy race.In some withdrawn, unpublic meadLet me sigh upon a reed,Or in the woods, with leafy din,Whisper the still evening in:Some still work…
Packed in my mind lie all the clothes
And in its fashion’s hourly changeIt all things else repairs.In vain I look for change abroad,And can no difference find,Till some new ray of peace uncalledIllumes my inmost mind.What is it gilds the trees and clouds,And paints the heavens so gay,But yonder fast-abiding lightWith its unchanging ray?Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,Upon a…
Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
Lark without song, and messenger of dawnCircling above the hamlets as they nest;Or else, departing dream, and shadowy formOf midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;By night star-veiling, and by dayDarkening the light and blotting out the sun;Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.
I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
Dangling this way and that, their linksWere made so loose and wide,Methinks,For milder weather.A bunch of violets without their roots,And sorrel intermixed,Encircled by a wisp of strawOnce coiled about their shoots,The lawBy which I’m fixed.A nosegay which Time clutched from outThose fair Elysian fields,With weeds and broken stems, in haste,Doth make the rabble routThat wasteThe…
My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,
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…
My life has been the poem
But I could not both liveand utter it.