* * *
This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me, --
The simple news that nature told,
With tender magesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
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* * *
. --
.
--
.
--
-- --
!
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* * *
Altrer? When the hills do.
Falter? When the sun
Question if his glory
Be the perfect one.
Surfeit? When the daffodil
Doth of the dew:
Even as herself, O friend!
I will of you!
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* * *
-- !
!
-
--
!
--
-- --
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* * *
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.
The heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the cubits warp
For fear to be a king.
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* * *
-- --
.
-- --
.
-- --
-- --
-- --
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* * *
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
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* * *
, ;
--
--
:
--
?
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* * *
The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I've known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
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* * *
--
--
.
--
--
,
--
.
--
--
.
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* * *
I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed?
For beauty, I replied.
And I for truth, -- the two are one;
We brethren are, he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
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* * *
.
--
.
? -- . --
.
...
-- ,
, ,
.
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* * *
To venerate the simple days
Which lead the seasons by,
Needs but to remember
That from you or me
They may take the trifle
Termed mortality!
To invent existence with a stately air,
Needs but to remember
That the acorn there
Is the egg of forests,
For the upper air!
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* * *
,
:
, ,
.
,
:
,
!
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* * *
--
,
--
, --
, --
, ...
--
-- --
--
-- ...
-- --
-- -- -- --
! -- -- ...
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* * *
--
--
.
--
,
--
--
-- --
--
--
--
, ,
-- --
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* * *
--
--
,
--
,
?
-- ,
--
--
--
--
--
--
--
.
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* * *
The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
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* * *
,
--
, ...
?
,
, ...
-- --
.
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* * *
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
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* * *
--
--
-- --
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* * *
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, --
One clover, and a bee,
And revery.
The revery alone will do
If bees are few
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* * *
,
--
,
.
,
, .
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