Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove. — Robert Frost, from “To Earthward,” The Poetry of Robert Frost: The Collected Poems, Complete and Unabridged (Henry Holt, 1979) Advertisements
The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together. — Walt Whitman, from “Kosmos,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.
Hyla Brook By June our brook’s run out of song and speed. Sought for much after that, it will be found Either to have gone groping underground (And taken with it all the Hyla breed That shouted in the mist a month ago, Like ghost of sleigh bells in a ghost of snow)— Or flourished… Continue reading Robert Frost
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of… Continue reading Walt Whitman
Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue? Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)— Though some savants make earth include the sky; And blue so far above us comes so… Continue reading Robert Frost
Here the frailest leaves of me, and yet my strongest-lasting: Here I shade and hide my thoughts—I myself do not expose them, And yet they expose me more than all my other poems. — Walt Whitman, “Here the Frailest Leaves of Me,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855
This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing… Continue reading Walt Whitman