No More Learning

do not let my loved one die,
God makes sech nights, all white an' still,
God sends his teachers unto every age,
Godminster? Is it Fancy's play?
Gold of the reddening sunset, backward thrown,
Gone, gone from us! and shall we see,
Great soul, thou sittest with me in my room,
Great truths are portions of the soul of man,
Guvener B. is a sensible man,

He came to Florence long ago,
He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough,
He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide,
He who first stretched his nerves of subtile wire,
Heaven's cup held down to me I drain,
Here once my step was quickened,
Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder!
Hers all that Earth could promise or bestow,
Hers is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear,
How strange are the freaks of memory!
How struggles with the tempest's swells,
How was I worthy so divine a loss,
Hushed with broad sunlight lies the hill,

I am a man of forty, sirs, a native of East Haddam,
I ask not for those thoughts, that sudden leap,
I call as fly the irrevocable hours,
I cannot think that thou shouldst pass away,
I christened you in happier days, before,
I could not bear to see those eyes,
I did not praise thee when the crowd,
I do not come to weep above thy pall,
I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it,
I du believe in Freedom's cause,
I go to the ridge in the forest,
I grieve not that ripe knowledge takes away,
I had a little daughter,
I have a fancy: how shall I bring it,
I hed it on my min' las' time, when I to write ye started,
I know a falcon swift and peerless,
I love to start out arter night's begun,
I need not praise the sweetness of his song,
I rise, Mr. Chairman, as both of us know,
I sat and watched the walls of night,
I sat one evening in my room,
I saw a Sower walking slow,
I saw the twinkle of white feet,
I sent you a message, my friens, t'other day,
I spose you recollect thet I explained my gennle views,
I spose you wonder ware I be; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me,
I swam with undulation soft,
I thank ye, my frien's, for the warmth o' your greetin',
I thought our love at full, but I did err,
I treasure in secret some long, fine hair,
I, walking the familiar street,
I was with thee in Heaven: I cannot tell,
I watched a moorland torrent run,
I went to seek for Christ,
I would more natures were like thine,
I would not have this perfect love of ours,
If he be a nobler lover, take him!
If I let fall a word of bitter mirth,
If I were the rose at your window,
In a small chamber, friendless and unseen,
In good old times, which means, you know,
In his tower sat the poet,
In life's small things be resolute and great,
In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder,
In town I hear, scarce wakened yet,
In vain we call old notions fudge,
Into the sunshine,
It don't seem hardly right, John,
It is a mere wild rosebud,
It mounts athwart the windy hill,
It was past the hour of trysting,
It's some consid'ble of a spell sence I hain't writ no letters,

Leaves fit to have been poor Juliet's cradle-rhyme,
Let others wonder what fair face,
Light of triumph in her eyes,
Look on who will in apathy, and stifle they who can,
Looms there the New Land,

Maiden, when such a soul as thine is born,
Mary, since first I knew thee, to this hour,
Men say the sullen instrument,
Men! whose boast it is that ye,
My coachman, in the moonlight there,
My day began not till the twilight fell,
My heart, I cannot still it,
My Love, I have no fear that thou shouldst die,
My name is Water: I have sped,
My soul was like the sea,
My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott,

Never, surely, was holier man,
New England's poet, rich in love as years,
Nine years have slipt like hour-glass sand,
No? Hez he? He haint, though? Wut? Voted agin him?
Nor deemed he lived unto himself alone,
Not always unimpeded can I pray,
Not as all other women are,
Now Biorn, the son of Heriulf, had ill days,

O days endeared to every Muse,
'O Dryad feet,'
O dwellers in the valley-land,
O Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height,
O moonlight deep and tender,
O wandering dim on the extremest edge,
Of all the myriad moods of mind,
Oft round my hall of portraiture I gaze,
Oh, tell me less or tell me more,
Old events have modern meanings; only that survives,
Old Friend, farewell! Your kindly door again,
On this wild waste, where never blossom came,
Once git a smell o' musk into a draw,
Once hardly in a cycle blossometh,
Once on a time there was a pool,
One after one the stars have risen and set,
One feast, of holy days the crest,
One kiss from all others prevents me,
Opening one day a book of mine,
Our love is not a fading, earthly flower,
Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea,
Over his keys the musing organist,

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Praisest Law, friend? We, too, love it much as they that love it best,
Propped on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see,
Punctorum garretos colens et cellara Quinque,

Rabbi Jehosha used to say,
Reader! Walk up at once (it will soon be too late),
Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine,

Said Christ our Lord, I will go and see,
Seat of all woes? Though Nature's firm decree,
She gave me all that woman can,
Shell, whose lips, than mine more cold,
Ship, blest to bear such freight across the blue,
Shy soul and stalwart, man of patient will,
Silencioso por la puerta,
Sisters two, all praise to you,
Skilled to pull wires, he baffles Nature's hope,
Sleep is Death's image,--poets tell us so,
So dreamy-soft the notes, so far away,
Some sort of heart I know is hers,
Sometimes come pauses of calm, when the rapt bard, holding his heart back,
Somewhere in India, upon a time,
Spirit, that rarely comest now,
Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now,
Stood the tall Archangel weighing,
Strong, simple, silent are the [steadfast] laws,
Swiftly the politic goes: is it dark? --he borrows a lantern,

Thank God, he saw you last in pomp of May,
Thanks to the artist, ever on my wall,
That's a rather bold speech, my Lord Bacon,
The Bardling came where by a river grew,
The century numbers fourscore years,
The cordage creaks and rattles in the wind,
The dandelions and buttercups,
The electric nerve, whose instantaneous thrill,
The fire is burning clear and blithely,
The hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day,
The little gate was reached at last,
The love of all things springs from love of one,
The Maple puts her corals on in May,
The misspelt scrawl, upon the wall,
The moon shines white and silent,
The New World's sons, from England's breasts we drew,
The next whose fortune 'twas a tale to tell,
The night is dark, the stinging sleet,
The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh his end,
The path from me to you that led,
The pipe came safe, and welcome too,
The rich man's son inherits lands,
The same good blood that now refills,
The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the skies,
The wind is roistering out of doors,
The wisest man could ask no more of Fate,
The world turns mild; democracy, they say,
There are who triumph in a losing cause,
There came a youth upon the earth,
There lay upon the ocean's shore,
There never yet was flower fair in vain,
Therefore think not the Past is wise alone,
These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred,
These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,
They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds,
Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast,
This is the midnight of the century,--hark!
This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',
This little blossom from afar,
Thou look'dst on me all yesternight,
Thou wast the fairest of all man-made things,
Though old the thought and oft exprest,
Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle,
Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed,
Thy love thou sentest oft to me,
Thy voice is like a fountain,
'Tis a woodland enchanted!
To those who died for her on land and sea,
True as the sun's own work but more refined,
True Love is a humble, low-born thing,
Turbid from London's noise and smoke,
'Twas sung of old in hut and hall,
'Twere no hard task, perchance, to win,
Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair,
Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe,

Unconscious as the sunshine, simply sweet,
Unseen Musician, thou art sure to please,
Untremulous in the river clear,

Violet! sweet violet!

Wait a little: do _we_ not wait?
Walking alone where we walked together,
We see but half the causes of our deeds,
We, too, have autumns, when our leaves,
We wagered, she for sunshine, I for rain,
Weak-winged is song,
What boot your houses and your lands?
What countless years and wealth of brain were spent,
'What fairings will ye that I bring? '
What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his!
What hath Love with Thought to do?
What know we of the world immense,
What man would live coffined with brick and stone,
What mean these banners spread,
'What means this glory round our feet,'
What Nature makes in any mood,
What visionary tints the year puts on,
What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee,
What were the whole void world, if thou wert dead,
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast,
When I was a beggarly boy,
When oaken woods with buds are pink,
When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand,
When the down is on the chin,
When wise Minerva still was young,
Where is the true man's fatherland?