Written by
Robert Burns |
IS there a whim-inspirèd fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,
Wild as the wave,
Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn the wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain’d his name!
Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom’s root.
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
How noteless Men, and Pleiads, stand,
Until a sudden sky
Reveals the fact that One is rapt
Forever from the Eye --
Members of the Invisible,
Existing, while we stare,
In Leagueless Opportunity,
O'ertakenless, as the Air --
Why didn't we detain Them?
The Heavens with a smile,
Sweep by our disappointed Heads
Without a syllable --
|
Written by
Emily Dickinson |
I was the slightest in the House --
I took the smallest Room --
At night, my little Lamp, and Book --
And one Geranium --
So stationed I could catch the Mint
That never ceased to fall --
And just my Basket --
Let me think -- I'm sure --
That this was all --
I never spoke -- unless addressed --
And then, 'twas brief and low --
I could not bear to live -- aloud --
The Racket shamed me so --
And if it had not been so far --
And any one I knew
Were going -- I had often thought
How noteless -- I could die --
|