Others

All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.

I caught this morning morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy!

Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.

Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.

The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries. And every joke that’s possible has long ago been made.

A wandering minstrel I— And dreamy lullaby!

A wandering minstrel I— And dreamy lullaby!

A greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery, Foot-in-the-grave young man!

Francesca da Rimini, miminy, piminy, Je-ne-sais-quoi young man!

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your medieval hand. And everyone will say, As you walk your flowery way, “If he’s content with a vegetable love, which would certainly not suit me, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”

It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul.

Genius does what it must, and talent does what it can.

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 the Human Soul!

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 the Human Soul!

A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day.

Adventure most unto itself The Soul condemned to be— Attended by a single Hound Its own identity.

The Brain—is wider than the Sky— For—put them side by side— The one the other will contain With ease—and You—beside.

I reckon—when I count at all— First—Poets—Then the Sun— Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God— And then—the List is done— But, looking back—the First so seems To Comprehend the Whole— The Others look a needless Show— So I write—Poets—All—

I reckon—when I count at all— First—Poets—Then the Sun— Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God— And then—the List is done— But, looking back—the First so seems To Comprehend the Whole— The Others look a needless Show— So I write—Poets—All—

I died for Beauty—but was scarce Adjusted in the Tomb When One who died for Truth, was lain In an adjoining Room—

This is my letter to the World That never wrote to Me— The simple News that Nature told— With tender Majesty.

No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One—

I’ll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time—

“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all—