No More Learning

Writing, dangerous to reputation.
Wrong, abstract, safe to oppose.

Yankees, their worst wooden nutmegs.

Zack, Old.




INDEX OF FIRST LINES


A beggar through the world am I,
A camel-driver, angry with his drudge,
A heap of bare and splintery crags,
A hundred years! they're quickly fled,
A legend that grew in the forest's hush,
A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
A poet cannot strive for despotism,
A presence both by night and day,
A race of nobles may die out,
A stranger came one night to Yussouf's tent,
About the oak that framed this chair, of old,
Alike I hate to be your debtor,
Along a river-side, I know not where,
Amid these fragments of heroic days,
An ass munched thistles, while a nightingale,
'And how could you dream of meeting? '
Another star 'neath Time's horizon dropped,
Are we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be,
As a twig trembles, which a bird,
As, cleansed of Tiber's and Oblivion's slime,
As, flake by flake, the beetling avalanches,
As life runs on, the road grows strange,
As sinks the sun behind yon alien hills,
As the broad ocean endlessly upheaveth,
At Carnac in Brittany, close on the bay,
At length arrived, your book I take,
At twenty we fancied the blest Middle Ages,
Ay, pale and silent maiden,

B, taught by Pope to do his good by stealth,
Beauty on my hearth-stone blazing!
Beloved, in the noisy city here,
Beneath the trees,
Bowing thyself in dust before a Book,

Can this be thou who, lean and pale,
Come back before the birds are flown,
'Come forth! ' my catbird calls to me,
Curtis, whose Wit, with Fancy arm in arm,

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,
Dear M. ---- By way of saving time,
Dear Sir,--You wish to know my notions,
Dear Sir,--Your letter come to han',
Dear Wendell, why need count the years,
Death never came so nigh to me before,
Don't believe in the Flying Dutchman?
Down 'mid the tangled roots of things,

Ef I a song or two could make,
Entranced I saw a vision in the cloud,
Ere pales in Heaven the morning star,

Fair as a summer dream was Margaret,
Far over Elf-land poets stretch their sway,
Far through the memory shines a happy day,
Far up on Katahdin thou towerest,
Far 'yond this narrow parapet of Time,
Fit for an Abbot of Theleme,
For this true nobleness I seek in vain,
Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood,
From the close-shut windows gleams no spark,
Full oft the pathway to her door,

Giddings, far rougher names than thine have grown,
Go! leave me, Priest; my soul would be,
God! 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?