#Activities #AmericanWriters #ArtsAndSciences #LandscapesAnd#Pastorals #Nature #SocialCommentaries #TravelsAndJourneys & Country Life Philo#Aphorism Town sophy,
Though loth to grieve The evil time’s sole patriot, I cannot leave My buried thought For the priest’s cant,
Though loath to grieve The evil time’s sole patriot, I cannot leave My honied thought For the priest’s cant,
Though loath to grieve The evil time’s sole patriot, I cannot leave My honeyed thought For the priest’s cant,
Seek not the Spirit, if it hide, Inexorable to thy zeal: Baby, do not whine and chide; Art thou not also real? Why should’st thou stoop to poor e…
Askest ‘How long thou shall stay?… Devastator of the day! Know, each substance and relation Thorough nature’s operation, Hath its unit, bound, and metre,
If thou canst bear Strong meat of simple truth If thou durst my words compare With what thou thinkest in my soul… Then take this fact unto thy soul,…
THE EYE is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary picture is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the ...
Was never form and never face So sweet to SEYD as only grace Which did not slumber like a stone… But hovered gleaming and was gone. Beauty chased he everywhere,
Thy trivial harp will never please Or fill my craving ear; Its chords should ring as blows th… Free, peremptory, clear. No jingling serenader’s art,
I do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows ma…
Because I was content with these… Low open meads, slender and sluggi… And found a home in haunts which o… The partial wood—gods overpaid my… And granted me the freedom of thei…
Guard well your spare moments. Th…
Good Heart, that ownest all! I ask a modest boon and small: Not of lands and towns the gift,— Too large a load for me to lift,— But for one proper creature,
I love thy music, mellow bell, I love thine iron chime, To life or death, to heaven or hel… Which calls the sons of Time. Thy voice upon the deep
Virtue runs before the muse And defies her skill, She is rapt, and doth refuse To wait a painter’s will. Star—adoring, occupied,