Poems: 2nd series
Roberts Brothers, 1891 - American poetry - 230 pages
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bear bells bird blue break breath butterfly called dare dead Death depart died door drop ecstasy Emily Dickinson everywhere eyes face failed fair fear feel feet fellow felt figure fingers flower frost goes gone grace grass hands head hear heard heart heaven hills hope hour hurried keep knew knock land late least leaves letter light lived look lost MICHIGAN mind morning nature never night noon noticed pass past play pleased poems prayer prove purple rest road robin rose seen sing sleep slow smile snow softly soul stand stars stop streets summer sure sweet tell thee thing thought Till took touch town transport tree tune turn universe Unto verses wild wind window wished woods
Page 39 - I like to see it lap the Miles And lick the Valleys up And stop to feed itself at Tanks And then - prodigious step Around a Pile of Mountains And supercilious peer In Shanties - by the sides of Roads And then a Quarry pare To fit its...
Page 27 - Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
Page 214 - One need not be a Chamber - to be Haunted One need not be a House The Brain has Corridors - surpassing Material Place Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting External Ghost Than its interior Confronting That Cooler Host.
Page 222 - It was not Death, for I stood up, And all the Dead, lie down It was not Night, for all the Bells Put out their Tongues, for Noon. It was not Frost, for on my Flesh > I felt Siroccos - crawl Nor Fire - for just my marble feet Could keep a Chancel, cool And yet, it tasted, like them all, The Figures I have seen...
Page 113 - Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard? Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! Oh, some wise man from the skies! Please to tell a little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies!
Page 125 - To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing — Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto Crowd — The Fashion of the Ear Attireth that it hear In Dun, or fair — So whether it be Rune, Or whether it be none Is of within. The "Tune is in the Tree — " The Skeptic — showeth me — "No Sir! In Thee!
Page 89 - When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is shifted like a sand ; When figures show their royal front And mists are carved away, — Behold the atom I preferred To all the lists of clay ! II.
Page 94 - Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him — Tell him the page I didn't write; Tell him I only said the syntax, And left the verb and the pronoun out.
Page 140 - A BIRD came down the walk : •^ He did not know I saw ; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. And then he drank a dew From a convenient grass, And then hopped sidewise to the wall To let a beetle pass. He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all...
Page 168 - As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away — Too imperceptible at last To seem like Perfidy — A Quietness distilled As Twilight long begun, Or Nature spending with herself Sequestered Afternoon — The Dusk drew earlier in — The Morning foreign shone — A courteous, yet harrowing Grace, As Guest, that would be gone — And thus, without a Wing Or service of a Keel Our summer made her light escape Into the Beautiful.