Mad for Poetry

    To help our bleaker parts    Salubrious hours are given,    Which if they do not fit for earth    Drill silently for heaven.

    To hang our head ostensibly,    And subsequent to find    That such was not the posture    Of our immortal mind,     Affords the sly presumption    That, in so dense a fuzz,    You,…

    Mine enemy is growing old, —    I have at last revenge.    The palate of the hate departs;    If any would avenge, —     Let him be quick, the viand…

    Three weeks passed since I had seen her, —    Some disease had vexed;    ‘T was with text and village singing    I beheld her next,     And a company —…

    This world is not conclusion;    A sequel stands beyond,    Invisible, as music,    But positive, as sound.    It beckons and it baffles;    Philosophies don’t know,    And through a riddle, at the last,    Sagacity…

    This was in the white of the year,    That was in the green,    Drifts were as difficult then to think    As daisies now to be seen.     Looking back…

    This merit hath the worst, —    It cannot be again.    When Fate hath taunted last    And thrown her furthest stone,     The maimed may pause and breathe,    And glance securely…

    We thirst at first, — ‘t is Nature’s act;    And later, when we die,    A little water supplicate    Of fingers going by.     It intimates the finer want,    Whose adequate…