A Collection
Poems for the long ache.
Pablo Neruda
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, "The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance." The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor. Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
Ocean Vuong
Ocean, don't be afraid. The end of the road is so far ahead it is already behind us. Don't worry. Your father is only your father until one of you forgets.
Emily Dickinson
Not at Home to Callers Says the Naked Tree -- Bonnet due in April -- Wishing you Good Day --
Emily Dickinson
Summer begins to have the look Peruser of enchanting Book Reluctantly but sure perceives A gain upon the backward leaves -- Autumn begins to be inferred By millinery of the cloud Or deeper color in the shawl That wraps the everlasting hill. The eye begins its avarice A meditation chastens speech Some Dyer of a distant tree Resumes his gaudy industry. Conclusion is the course of All At most to be perennial And then elude stability Recalls to immortality.
Emily Dickinson
The Life we have is very great. The Life that we shall see Surpasses it, we know, because It is Infinity. But when all Space has been beheld And all Dominion shown The smallest Human Heart's extent Reduces it to none.
Emily Dickinson
Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host Who took the Flag today Can tell the definition So clear of Victory As he defeated -- dying -- On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Burst agonized and clear!
Emily Dickinson
The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" -- The hue -- of it -- is Blood -- An Artery -- upon the Hill -- A Vein -- along the Road -- Great Globules -- in the Alleys -- And Oh, the Shower of Stain -- When Winds -- upset the Basin -- And spill the Scarlet Rain -- It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below -- It gathers ruddy Pools -- Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away -- Upon Vermilion Wheels --
Emily Dickinson
Remorse -- is Memory -- awake -- Her Parties all astir -- A Presence of Departed Acts -- At window -- and at Door -- Its Past -- set down before the Soul And lighted with a Match -- Perusal -- to facilitate -- And help Belief to stretch -- Remorse is cureless -- the Disease Not even God -- can heal -- For 'tis His institution -- and The Adequate of Hell --
Emily Dickinson
There is a flower that Bees prefer -- And Butterflies -- desire -- To gain the Purple Democrat The Humming Bird -- aspire -- And Whatsoever Insect pass -- A Honey bear away Proportioned to his several dearth And her -- capacity -- Her face be rounder than the Moon And ruddier than the Gown Or Orchis in the Pasture -- Or Rhododendron -- worn -- She doth not wait for June -- Before the World be Green -- Her sturdy little Countenance Against the Wind -- be seen -- Contending with the Grass -- Near Kinsman to Herself -- For Privilege of Sod and Sun -- Sweet Litigants for Life -- And when the Hills be full -- And newer fashions blow -- Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy -- Her Public -- be the Noon -- Her Providence -- the Sun -- Her Progress -- by the Bee -- proclaimed -- In sovereign -- Swerveless Tune -- The Bravest -- of the Host -- Surrendering -- the last -- Nor even of Defeat -- aware -- What cancelled by the Frost --
Emily Dickinson
We thirst at first -- 'tis Nature's Act -- And later -- when we die -- A little Water supplicate -- Of fingers going by -- It intimates the finer want -- Whose adequate supply Is that Great Water in the West -- Termed Immortality --
Emily Dickinson
She's happy, with a new Content -- That feels to her -- like Sacrament -- She's busy -- with an altered Care -- As just apprenticed to the Air -- She's tearful -- if she weep at all -- For blissful Causes -- Most of all That Heaven permit so meek as her -- To such a Fate -- to Minister.
Emily Dickinson
I many times thought Peace had come When Peace was far away -- As Wrecked Men -- deem they sight the Land -- At Centre of the Sea -- And struggle slacker -- but to prove As hopelessly as I -- How many the fictitious Shores -- Before the Harbor be --
Emily Dickinson
So much of Heaven has gone from Earth That there must be a Heaven If only to enclose the Saints To Affidavit given. The Missionary to the Mole Must prove there is a Sky Location doubtless he would plead But what excuse have I? Too much of Proof affronts Belief The Turtle will not try Unless you leave him -- then return And he has hauled away.
Emily Dickinson
When Memory is full Put on the perfect Lid -- This Morning's finest syllable Presumptuous Evening said --
Emily Dickinson
A Wife -- at daybreak I shall be -- Sunrise -- Hast thou a Flag for me? At Midnight, I am but a Maid, How short it takes to make a Bride -- Then -- Midnight, I have passed from thee Unto the East, and Victory -- Midnight -- Good Night! I hear them call, The Angels bustle in the Hall -- Softly my Future climbs the Stair, I fumble at my Childhood's prayer So soon to be a Child no more -- Eternity, I'm coming -- Sire, Savior -- I've seen the face -- before!
Emily Dickinson
Whatever it is -- she has tried it -- Awful Father of Love -- Is not Ours the chastising -- Do not chastise the Dove -- Not for Ourselves, petition -- Nothing is left to pray -- When a subject is finished -- Words are handed away -- Only lest she be lonely In thy beautiful House Give her for her Transgression License to think of us --
Emily Dickinson
Said Death to Passion "Give of thine an Acre unto me." Said Passion, through contracting Breaths "A Thousand Times Thee Nay." Bore Death from Passion All His East He -- sovereign as the Sun Resituated in the West And the Debate was done.
Emily Dickinson
It can't be "Summer"! That -- got through! It's early -- yet -- for "Spring"! There's that long town of White -- to cross -- Before the Blackbirds sing! It can't be "Dying"! It's too Rouge -- The Dead shall go in White -- So Sunset shuts my question down With Cuffs of Chrysolite!
Walt Whitman
PRIMEVAL my love for the woman I love, O bride! O wife! more resistless, more enduring than I can tell, the thought of you! Then separate, as disembodied, the purest born, The ethereal, the last athletic reality, my consolation, I ascend—I float in the regions of your love, O man, O sharer of my roving life.
Walt Whitman
TO get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; Here’s a good place at the corner—I must stand and see the show. Clear the way there, Jonathan! Way for the President’s marshal! Way for the government cannon! Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the apparitions copiously tumbling. I love to look on the stars and stripes—I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle. How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping, Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless. Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see! Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! Cock’d hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men’s shoulders! What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums? Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and level them? If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President’s marshal; If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon. For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those toss’d arms, and let your white hair be; Here gape your great grand-sons—their wives gaze at them from the windows, See how well dress’d—see how orderly they conduct themselves. Worse and worse! Can’t you stand it? Are you retreating? Is this hour with the living too dead for you? Retreat then! Pell-mell! To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! I do not think you belong here, anyhow. But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of Boston? I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a committee to England; They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault—haste! Dig out King George’s coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey; Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay. Now call for the President’s marshal again, bring out the government cannon, Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and dragoons. This centre-piece for them: Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women! The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay, Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull. You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its own. Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day; You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.
Walt Whitman
WHISPERS of heavenly death, murmur’d I hear; Labial gossip of night—sibilant chorals; Footsteps gently ascending—mystical breezes, wafted soft and low; Ripples of unseen rivers—tides of a current, flowing, forever flowing; (Or is it the plashing of tears? the measureless waters of human tears?) I see, just see, skyward, great cloud-masses; Mournfully, slowly they roll, silently swelling and mixing; With, at times, a half-dimm’d, sadden’d, far-off star, Appearing and disappearing. (Some parturition, rather—some solemn, immortal birth: On the frontiers, to eyes impenetrable, Some Soul is passing over.)
Walt Whitman
OUT of the murk of heaviest clouds, Out of the feudal wrecks, and heap’d-up skeletons of kings, Out of that old entire European debris—the shatter’d mummeries, Ruin’d cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of priests, Lo! Freedom’s features, fresh, undimm’d, look forth—the same immortal face looks forth; (A glimpse as of thy mother’s face, Columbia, A flash significant as of a sword, Beaming towards thee.) Nor think we forget thee, Maternal; Lag’d’st thou so long? Shall the clouds close again upon thee? Ah, but thou hast Thyself now appear’d to us—we know thee; Thou hast given us a sure proof, the glimpse of Thyself; Thou waitest there, as everywhere, thy time.
Walt Whitman
WHAT General has a good army in himself, has a good army; He happy in himself, or she happy in herself, is happy, But I tell you you cannot be happy by others, any more than you can beget or conceive a child by others.