121 Classic Poems

I look into my glass, And view my wasting skin, And say, “Would God it came to pass My heart had shrunk as thin!” For then, I, undistrest By hearts grown cold to me, Could lonely wait my endless rest With equanimity. But Time, to make me grieve, Part steals, lets part abide; And shakes […]

If but some vengeful god would call to me. From up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing, Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!” Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die, Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited; Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than

Does the road up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot

One face looks out from all his canvases, One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans: We found her hidden just behind those screens, That mirror gave back all her loveliness. A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer- greens, A saint, an angel- every canvas means The same

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand

When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the

“Hope” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops at all. And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm. I’ve heard it in the chillest land And on the

Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need. Not one of all the purple Host Who took the Flag today Can tell the definition So clear of Victory As he defeated—dying—On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Burst agonized and clear! EMILY DICKINSON Comprehend :

The fairest day that ever yet has shone, Will be when thou the day within halt see; The fairest rose that ever yet has blown, When thou the flower thou lookest on shalt be. But thou art far away among Time’s toys; Thyself the day thou lookest for in them, Thyself the flower that now

I see them crowd on crow they walk the earth Dry, leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare; And in their nakedness find cause for mirth, And all unclad would winter’s rudeness dare; No sap doth through their clattering branches flow, Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear; Their hearts the living God have ceased

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up

Break, break, break On thy cold gray stones, 0 Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman’s boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the

A thing of beauty is a joy forever Its loveliness increases, it will never Pass into nothingness; but will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priest like task Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, Or grazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain; Before high-piled books, in charact’ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starred face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their