Talk with prudence to a beggar
That I did always love,
That is solemn we have ended, —
That short, potential stir
That such have died enables us
The bat is dun with wrinkled wings
The bee is not afraid of me,
The body grows outside, —
The bone that has no marrow;
The brain is wider than the sky,
The brain within its groove
The bustle in a house
The butterfly's assumption-gown,
The clouds their backs together laid,
The cricket sang,
The daisy follows soft the sun,
The day came slow, till five o'clock,
The distance that the dead have gone
The dying need but little, dear, —
The farthest thunder that I heard
The gentian weaves her fringes,
The grass so little has to do, —
The grave my little cottage is,
The heart asks pleasure first,
The last night that she lived,
The leaves, like women, interchange
The moon is distant from the sea,
The moon was but a chin of gold
The morns are meeker than they were,
The mountain sat upon the plain
The murmur of a bee
The murmuring of bees has ceased;
The mushroom is the elf of plants,
The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The night was wide, and furnished scant
The one that could repeat the summer day
The only ghost I ever saw
The past is such a curious creature,
The pedigree of honey
The rat is the concisest tenant.
The reticent volcano keeps
The robin is the one
The rose did caper on her cheek,
The show is not the show,
The skies can't keep their secret!
The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
The soul selects her own society,
The soul should always stand ajar,
The soul unto itself
The spider as an artist
The springtime's pallid landscape
The stimulus, beyond the grave
The sun just touched the morning;
The sun kept setting, setting still;
The thought beneath so slight a film
The way I read a letter 's this:
The wind begun to rock the grass
The wind tapped like a tired man
Their height in heaven comforts not,
There came a day at summer's full
There came a wind like a bugle;
There is a flower that bees prefer,
There is a shame of nobleness
There is a word
There is no frigate like a book
There's a certain slant of light,
There's been a death in the opposite house
There's something quieter than sleep
These are the days when birds come back,
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
They say that 'time assuages,' —
They won't frown always, — some sweet day
This is my letter to the world,
This merit hath the worst, —
This was in the white of the year,
This world is not conclusion;
Though I get home how late, how late!
Three weeks passed since I had seen her, —
Through the straight pass of suffering
'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy!
'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou
'T is whiter than an Indian pipe,
Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,
To fight aloud is very brave,
To hang our head ostensibly,
To hear an oriole sing
To help our bleaker parts
To know just how he suffered would be dear;
To learn the transport by the pain,
To lose one's faith surpasses
To lose thee, sweeter than to gain
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, —
To my quick ear the leaves conferred;
To venerate the simple days
Triumph may be of several kinds.
'T was a long parting, but the time
'T was just this time last year I died.
'T was later when the summer went
'T was such a little, little boat
Two butterflies went out at noon
Two swimmers wrestled on the spar
Undue significance a starving man attaches
Unto my books so good to turn
Upon the gallows hung a wretch,
Victory comes late,
Wait till the majesty of Death
Water is taught by thirst;
We cover thee, sweet face.
We learn in the retreating
We like March, his shoes are purple,
We never know how high we are
We never know we go, — when we are going
We outgrow love like other things
We play at paste,
We thirst at first, — 't is Nature's act;
Went up a year this evening!
What if I say I shall not wait?
What inn is this
What mystery pervades a well!
What soft, cherubic creatures
When I hoped I feared,
When I was small, a woman died.
When night is almost done,
When roses cease to bloom, dear,
Where every bird is bold to go,
Where ships of purple gently toss
Whether my bark went down at sea,
While I was fearing it, it came,
Who has not found the heaven below
Who never lost, are unprepared
Who never wanted, — maddest joy
Who robbed the woods,
"Whose are the little beds," I asked,
Wild nights! Wild nights!
Will there really be a morning?
Within my reach!
You cannot put a fire out;
You left me, sweet, two legacies, —
You've seen balloons set, haven't you?
Your riches taught me poverty.