#AmericanWriters
Thousand minstrels woke within me, “Our music’s in the hills; ”— Gayest pictures rose to win me, Leopard—colored rills. Up!—If thou knew’st who calls
You shall not be overbold When you deal with arctic cold, As late I found my lukewarm blood Chilled wading in the snow—choked… How should I fight? my foeman fin…
Thanks to the morning light, Thanks to the seething sea, To the uplands of New Hampshire, To the green—haired forest free; Thanks to each man of courage,
The sinful painter drapes his godd… Because she still is naked, being… The godlike sculptor will not so d… Beauty, which bones and flesh enou…
I love thy music, mellow bell, I love thine iron chime, To life or death, to heaven or hel… Which calls the sons of Time. Thy voice upon the deep
I like the church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensiv… Yet not for all his faith can see
ALL day the waves assailed the ro… I heard no church—bell chime; The sea—beat scorns the minster cl… And breaks the glass of Time.
If I could put my woods in song And tell what’s there enjoyed, All men would to my gardens throng… And leave the cities void. In my plot no tulips blow,—
Thy summer voice, Musketaquit, Repeats the music of the rain; But sweeter rivers pulsing flit Through thee, as thou through the… Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
Good Heart, that ownest all! I ask a modest boon and small: Not of lands and towns the gift,— Too large a load for me to lift,— But for one proper creature,
Man was made of social earth, Child and brother from his birth; Tethered by a liquid cord Of blood through veins of kindred… Next his heart the fireside band
If thou canst bear Strong meat of simple truth If thou durst my words compare With what thou thinkest in my soul… Then take this fact unto thy soul,…
By the rude bridge that arched the… Their flag to April’s breeze unfu… Here once the embattled farmers st… And fired the shot heard round the… The foe long since in silence slep…
THOUGH love repine, and reason… There came a voice without reply,— “'T is man’s perdition to be safe, When for the truth he ought to die…
It is time to be old, To take in sail:— The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds,