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Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
And hat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage...
He spits on the face of the gods;
And still they sing his songs
Our stories; tears and hurt,
Are fodder for his craft.
What we whisper in shame,
He sings his way to fame.
Many men are born,
But forgotten once...
Fresh tunes of new promises
A tiny buzz from loving smiles
And lo! The mutual melody
As hum by hum
Deeper you both fall
Until what we were
Is but an echo.
All these the wind whispers
Little whispers that break...
This is not I. I had no body once–
only what served my need to laugh and run
and stare at stars and tentatively dance
on the fringe of foam and wave and sand and sun.
Eyes loved, hands reached for me, but I was gone
on my own...
He wanders slowly,
hands in his pockets,
eyes tracing the faces
frozen in time,
their stories reaching out
from the quiet walls.
The floor creaks softly beneath him,
but the air feels heavy
weighted with...
Only blood could wash away sin,
And so we put on altars, the blood of beasts.
Only blood could wash away sin,
And yet this blood was never fit.
Only blood could wash away sin,
And so He gave us His only kin.
Only His blood...
The longer it takes
My heart it bakes
This thing…
I see the days
I feel the nights
This thing…
As sure as the sky is blue
All my heart wants is you!
Come live with me, and be my love;
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By...
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little...
Ecstatic bird songs pound
the hollow vastness of the sky
with metallic clinkings—
beating color up into it
at a far edge,—beating it, beating it
with rising, triumphant ardor,—
stirring it into warmth,
quickening in it a spreading...
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
and before the street begins,
and there the grass grows soft and white,
and there the sun burns crimson bright,
and there the moon-bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint...
Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”
Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot...