I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant–
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind–
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
That I shall love always,
I argue thee
that love is life,
and life hath immortality
If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.
Heart, we will forget him,
You and I, tonight!
You must forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
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.
She died–this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.
Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath.
We do not play on Graves—Because there isn’t Room—Besides—it isn’t even—it slantsAnd People come—And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we move as farAs Enemies—away—Just looking round to see how farIt is—Occasionally—
My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf 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.
They say that “time assuages,”— Time never did assuage; An actual suffering strengthens, As sinews do, with age. Time is a test of trouble, But not a remedy. If such it prove, it prove too There was no malady.
I wonder if it hurts to live,And if they have to try,And whether, could they choose between,They would not rather die.
To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
Look back on Time, with kindly eyes -He doubtless did his best -How softly sinks that trembling sunIn Human Nature’s West –
The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,–The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity
We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.
Let us strive together to part with time more reluctantly, to watch the pinions of the fleeting moment until they are dim in the distance, and the new-coming moment claims our attention.
The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.