Unto my Books-so good to turn-Far ends of tired Days-It half endears the Abstinence-And Pain-is missed-in Praise-As Flavors-cheer Retarded Guests with Banquettings to be-so Spices-stimulate the time till my small Library-It may be Wilderness-without-Far feet of failing Men-But Holiday-excludes the night-And it is Bells-within-I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf-Their Countenances Kid Enamor-in Prospective-And satisfy-obtained-
Forgive me if I never visit. I am from the fields, you know, and while quite at home with the dandelions, make a sorry figure in a drawing room.
Hunger is a way of standing outside windows the entering takes away.
I felt it shelter to speak to you.
I see thee better in the dark, I do not need a light.
I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, the bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, That must have been the sun!
Bless God, he went as soldiers, his musket on his breastâ€” grant God, he charge the bravest of all the martial blest! Please God, might I behold him in epauletted whiteâ€”I should not fear the foe thenâ€”I should not fear the fight!
I had been hungry all the years- my noon had come, to dine- I, trembling, drew the table near and touched the curious wine. 'Twas this on tables I had seen when turning, hungry, lone, I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own. I did not know the ample bread, 'twas so unlike the crumb the birds and I had often shared in Nature's dining room. The plenty hurt me, 'twas so new,-- Myself felt ill and odd, as berry of a mountain bush transplanted to the road. Nor was I hungry; so I found that hunger was a way of persons outside windows, the entering takes away.