Poems

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1890
 

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Strana 55 - All honor and praise to the righthearted bard Who was true to The Voice when such service was hard, Who himself was so free he dared sing for the slave When to look but a protest in silence was brave...
Strana 51 - 11 grant, if you choose, he has 'em. But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm ; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. "He is very nice reading in summer, but inter Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter; Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. But, deduct all you can, there 's enough...
Strana 3 - Critics, or better (I like, as a thing that the reader's first fancy may strike, an oldfashioned title-page, such as presents a tabular view of the volume's contents), A glance at a few of our Literary progenies (Mrs. Malaprop's word) From the tub of Diogenes...
Strana 213 - T is thirteen years ; once more I press The turf that silences the lane ; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, I hear, — " Auf wiedersehen! " Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these — they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart ; She said, — "Auf wiedersehen!
Strana 38 - There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on, Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows, Is some of it pr No, 'tis not even prose...
Strana 84 - s Holmes, who is matchless among you for wit ; A Leyden-jar always full-charged, from which flit The electrical tingles of hit after hit ; In long poems 't is painful sometimes, and invites A thought of the way the new Telegraph writes, Which pricks down its little sharp sentences spitefully As if you got more than...
Strana 72 - Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge, Who talks like a book of iambs and pentameters, In a way to make people of common sense damn metres, Who has written some things quite the best of their kind, But the heart somehow seems all squeezed out by the mind...
Strana 175 - Life is a leaf of paper white Whereon each one of us may write His word or two, and then comes night.
Strana 189 - I could not sleep for cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain ! Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I 'd give all my lamps of silver bright.
Strana 54 - There is Whittier, whose swelling and vehement heart Strains the strait-breasted drab of the Quaker apart, And reveals the live Man, still supreme and erect, Underneath the bemummying wrappers of sect ; There was ne'er a man born who had more of the swing Of the true lyric bard and all that kind of thing...

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