#AmericanWriters
92 My friend must be a Bird’— Because it flies! Mortal, my friend must be, Because it dies!
118 My friend attacks my friend! Oh Battle picturesque! Then I turn Soldier too, And he turns Satirist!
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By strech of limb or stir of lid,— An independent one. Was ever idleness like this?
Not Sickness stains the Brave, Nor any Dart, Nor Doubt of Scene to come, But an adjourning Heart -
623 It was too late for Man— But early, yet, for God— Creation—impotent to help— But Prayer—remained—Our Side—
This quiet dust was gentlemen and… And lads and girls; Was laughter and ability and sighi… And frocks and curls; This passive place a summer’s nimb…
620 It makes no difference abroad— The Seasons—fit—the same— The Mornings blossom into Noons— And split their Pods of Flame—
Of Brussels—it was not— Of Kidderminster? Nay— The Winds did buy it of the Woods… They—sold it unto me It was a gentle price—
408 Unit, like Death, for Whom? True, like the Tomb, Who tells no secret Told to Him—
Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild In forest and the hill
123 Many cross the Rhine In this cup of mine. Sip old Frankfort air From my brown Cigar.
XXX WE play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool.
260 Read—Sweet—how others—strove— Till we—are stouter— What they—renounced— Till we—are less afraid—
34 Garland for Queens, may be— Laurels—for rare degree Of soul or sword. Ah—but remembering me—
1068 Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass.