But thou, O hope, with eyes so fair, what was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, and bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!
I would rather see words out on their own, away from their families and the warehouse of Roget wandering the world where they sometimes fall in love with a completely different word.
Poetry is the history of the human heart, and it continues to record the history of human emotion, whether it's celebration or grief or whatever it may be.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her, barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor. She will look in at me with her thin arms extended, offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear.
Prior to Wordsworth, humor was an essential part of poetry. I mean, they don't call them Shakespeare comedies for nothing.
By fairy hands their knell is rung By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
In a while, one of us will go up to bed and the other one will follow. Then we will slip below the surface of the night into miles of water, drifting down and down to the dark, soundless bottom until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still.
'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore; for thee the tear be duly shed; belov'd till life can charm no more, and mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.
In hollow murmurs died away.
The redbreast oft, at evening hours, shall kindly lend his little aid, with hoary moss, and gathered flowers, to deck the ground where thou art laid.
Each one is a gift, no doubt, mysteriously placed in your waking hand or set upon your forehead moments before you open your eyes.
In notes by distance made more sweet.
The sunlight flashes off your windshield, and when I look up into the small, posted mirror, I watch you diminish--my echo, my twin--and vanish around a curve in this whip of a road we can't help traveling together.
All the shad'wy tribes of Mind, in braided dance their murmurs joined.
Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole.
In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong.
Then there were the wits, using their last breath to exhale a line, a devastating capper, as if the world were simply a large gallery buzzing with people, and now it was time to throw on a long scarf and make an exit, leaving it to someone else to close the door.
Always mistrust a subordinate who never finds fault with his superior.
Filled with fury, rapt, inspir'd.
In unsettled times like these, when world cultures, countries and religions are facing off in violent confrontations, we could benefit from the reminder that storytelling is common to all civilizations. Whether in the form of a sprawling epic or a pointed ballad, the story is our most ancient method of making sense out of experience and of preserving the past.
There are many that I miss, having sent my last one out a car window sparking along the road one night, years ago.