Already blushes in thy cheek The bosom—thought which thou must… The bird, how far it haply roam By cloud or isle, is flying home; The maiden fears, and fearing runs

Give me truths, For I am weary of the surfaces, And die of inanition. If I knew Only the herbs and simples of the… Rue, cinquefoil, gill, vervain, an…

The rhyme of the poet Modulates the king’s affairs, Balance—loving nature Made all things in pairs. To every foot its antipode,

Higher far, Upward, into the pure realm, Over sun or star, Over the flickering Dæmon film, Thou must mount for love,—

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…

You shall not be overbold When you deal with arctic cold, As late I found my lukewarm blood Chilled wading in the snow—choked… How should I fight? my foeman fin…

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,

I serve you not, if you I follow, Shadow—like, o’er hill and hollow, And bend my fancy to your leading, All too nimble for my treading. When the pilgrimage is done,

IT fell in the ancient periods Which the brooding soul surveys, Or ever the wild Time coin’d itse… Into calendar months and days. This was the lapse of Uriel,

The rain has spoiled the farmer’s… Shall sorrow put my books away? Thereby are two days lost: Nature shall mind her own affairs, I will attend my proper cares,

The first thing we have to say respecting what are called new views here in New England, at the present time, is, that they are not new, but the very oldest of thoughts cast into the mo...

Deep in the man sits fast his fate To mould his fortunes, mean or gre… Unknown to Cromwell as to me Was Cromwell’s measure or degree; Unknown to him as to his horse,

What boots it, thy virtue, What profit thy parts, While one thing thou lackest, The art of all arts! The only credentials,

If I could put my woods in song And tell what’s there enjoyed, All men would to my gardens throng… And leave the cities void. In my plot no tulips blow,—