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Where there’s a wall
there’s a way through a
gate or door. There’s even
dont worry yr eyes
dont worry yr brain man th snow is
Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.
Susie Asado.
Hidden in wonder and snow, or sudden with summer,
This land stares at the sun in a huge silence
Endlessly repeating something we cannot…
In the onion, there’s
something of fire. That fire known as
Fog. The onion is the way
I am told by many of you that I must forgive and so I shall
after an Indian woman puts her shoulder to the Grand Coulee Dam
“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
like the beginnings — o odales o adagios — of islands
from under the clouds where I write the first poem
its brown warmth now that we recognize them
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into…
Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!
For me wilt thou renew the withered rose,
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Our life is like a forest, where the sun
Glints down upon us through the throbbing leaves;
What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
Lord of my heart’s elation,
Spirit of things unseen,
Be thou my aspiration
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Escape me?
Never —
Beloved!
If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
