Written by
Emily Dickinson |
The Truth -- is stirless --
Other force -- may be presumed to move --
This -- then -- is best for confidence --
When oldest Cedars swerve --
And Oaks untwist their fists --
And Mountains -- feeble -- lean --
How excellent a Body, that
Stands without a Bone --
How vigorous a Force
That holds without a Prop --
Truth stays Herself -- and every man
That trusts Her -- boldly up --
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Written by
Gerard Manley Hopkins |
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ?r, most weary, cry I can no more.
I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruis?d bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, ch?er.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, f?ot tr?d
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
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Written by
Carl Sandburg |
SLEEP is a maker of makers.
Birds sleep.
Feet cling to a perch.
Look at the balance.
Let the legs loosen, the backbone untwist, the head go heavy over, the whole works tumbles a done bird off the perch.
Fox cubs sleep.
The pointed head curls round into hind legs and tail.
It is a ball of red hair.
It is a **** waiting.
A wind might whisk it in the air across pastures and rivers, a cocoon, a pod of seeds.
The snooze of the black nose is in a circle of red hair.
Old men sleep.
In chimney corners, in rocking chairs, at wood stoves, steam radiators.
They talk and forget and nod and are out of talk with closed eyes.
Forgetting to live.
Knowing the time has come useless for them to live.
Old eagles and old dogs run and fly in the dreams.
Babies sleep.
In flannels the papoose faces, the bambino noses, and dodo, dodo the song of many matushkas.
Babies—a leaf on a tree in the spring sun.
A nub of a new thing sucks the sap of a tree in the sun, yes a new thing, a what-is-it? A left hand stirs, an eyelid twitches, the milk in the belly bubbles and gets to be blood and a left hand and an eyelid.
Sleep is a maker of makers.
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