#AmericanWriters
Think me not unkind and rude, That I walk alone in grove and gl… I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I
“May be true what I had heard, Earth’s a howling wilderness Truculent with fraud and force,” Said I, strolling through the pas… And along the riverside.
The sense of the world is short,— Long and various the report,— To love and be beloved; Men and gods have not outlearned i… And, how oft soe’er they’ve turned…
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…
Mine are the night and morning, The pits of air, the gulf of space… The sportive sun, the gibbous moon… The innumerable days. I hid in the solar glory,
Give all to love; Obey thy heart; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good—frame, Plans, credit and the Muse,—
The invitation to address you this day, with which you have honored me, was so welcome, that I made haste to obey it. A summons to celebrate with scholars a literary festival, is so all...
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,
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…
Who shall tell what did befall, Far away in time, when once, Over the lifeless ball, Hung idle stars and suns? What god the element obeyed?
And I behold once more My old familiar haunts; here the b… The same blue wonder that my infan… Admired, sage doubting whence the… Whence brought his sunny bubbles e…
This is he, who, felled by foes, Sprung harmless up, refreshed by b… He to captivity was sold, But him no prison—bars would hold: Though they sealed him in a rock,
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
The lords of life, the lords of li… I saw them pass, In their own guise, Like and unlike, Portly and grim,
Though loth to grieve The evil time’s sole patriot, I cannot leave My buried thought For the priest’s cant,
