Quotes to memorise
I taste a liquor never brewedFrom Tankards scooped in PearlNot all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
“Hope” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soulAnd sings the tune--without the wordsAnd never stops- at all-
Inebriate of Air-am IAnd Debauchee of DewReeling- thro endless summer days,
From inns of Molten Blue-
And sweetest in the Gale is heardAnd sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-
When “landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When Butterflies- renounce their “drams”I shall but drink the more!
I've heard it in the chillest landAnd on the strangest SeaYet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -of Me.
Till seraphs swing their snowy Hats,
And saints- to windows runTo see the little Tippler
Leaning against the- SunI heard a fly buzz- when I diedThe Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air
Between the Heaves of Storm.
The eyes around- had wrung them dryAnd Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset, when the King
Be witnessed in the RoomI willed my keepsakes- Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable-and then it was
There interposed a FlyWith Blue- uncertain, stumbling BuzzBetween the light- and meAnd then the Windows failed- and then
I could not see to see-
A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally ridesYou may have met Him-did you not
His notice sudden is-
The Soul has Bandaged moments—
When too appalled to stir—
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her—
The Grass divides as with a combA spotted shaft is seenAnd then it closes at your feet
And opens further on-
Salute her—with long fingers—
Caress her freezing hair—
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover—hovered—o'er—
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme—so—fair—
He likes a Boggy acre,
A Floor too cool for Corn.
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot,
I more than once, at Noon
The soul has moments of Escape—
When bursting all the doors—
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings upon the Hours,
Have passed, I thought, a Whip-lash
Unbraiding in the SunWhen, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was goneSeveral of Nature's People
I know, and they know meI feel for them a transport
Of cordialityBut never met this Fellow,
Attended, or alone
Without a tighter breathing,
And Zero at the Bone-
As do the Bee—delirious borne—
Long Dungeoned from his Rose—
Touch Liberty—then know no more,
But Noon, and Paradise—
The Soul's retaken moments—
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the Song,
The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue—
There's a certain slant of light,
Winter AfternoonsThat oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes.
Heavenly Hurt, it gives usWe can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the Meanings, areNone may teach it- Any'Tis the Seal, Despair,An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air.
When it comes, the Landscape listensShadows- hold their breathWhen it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death.
I could bring You Jewels—had I a mind to—
But You have enough—of those—
I could bring You Odors from St. Domingo—
Colors—from Vera Cruz—
Berries of the Bahamas—have I—
But this little Blaze
Flickering to itself—in the Meadow—
Suits Me—more than those—
Never a Fellow matched this Topaz—
And his Emerald Swing—
Dower itself—for Bobadilo—
Better—Could I bring?
I taste a liquor never brewedFrom Tankards scooped in PearlNot all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air-am IAnd Debauchee of DewReeling- thro endless summer days,
From inns of Molten BlueWhen “landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When Butterflies- renounce their “drams”I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy Hats,
And saints- to windows runTo see the little Tippler
Leaning against the- Sun-
“Hope” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soulAnd sings the tune--without the wordsAnd never stops- at allAnd sweetest in the Gale is heardAnd sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warmI've heard it in the chillest landAnd on the strangest SeaYet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -of Me.
I heard a fly buzz- when I diedThe Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air
Between the Heaves of Storm.
The eyes around- had wrung them dryAnd Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset, when the King
Be witnessed in the RoomI willed my keepsakes- Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable-and then it was
There interposed a FlyWith Blue- uncertain, stumbling BuzzBetween the light- and meAnd then the Windows failed- and then
I could not see to see-
A narrow Fellow in the Grass
Occasionally ridesYou may have met Him-did you not
His notice sudden isThe Grass divides as with a combA spotted shaft is seenAnd then it closes at your feet
And opens further onHe likes a Boggy acre,
A Floor too cool for Corn.
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot,
I more than once, at Noon
Have passed, I thought, a Whip-lash
Unbraiding in the SunWhen, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was goneSeveral of Nature's People
I know, and they know meI feel for them a transport
Of cordialityBut never met this Fellow,
Attended, or alone
Without a tighter breathing,
And Zero at the Bone-
The Soul has Bandaged moments—
When too appalled to stir—
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her—
Salute her—with long fingers—
Caress her freezing hair—
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover—hovered—o'er—
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme—so—fair—
The soul has moments of Escape—
When bursting all the doors—
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings upon the Hours,
As do the Bee—delirious borne—
Long Dungeoned from his Rose—
Touch Liberty—then know no more,
But Noon, and Paradise—
The Soul's retaken moments—
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the Song,
The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue—
There's a certain slant of light,
Winter AfternoonsThat oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes.
Heavenly Hurt, it gives usWe can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the Meanings, areNone may teach it- Any'Tis the Seal, Despair,An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air.
When it comes, the Landscape listensShadows- hold their breathWhen it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death.
I could bring You Jewels—had I a mind to—
But You have enough—of those—
I could bring You Odors from St. Domingo—
Colors—from Vera Cruz—
Berries of the Bahamas—have I—
But this little Blaze
Flickering to itself—in the Meadow—
Suits Me—more than those—
Never a Fellow matched this Topaz—
And his Emerald Swing—
Dower itself—for Bobadilo—
Better—Could I bring?