There is no Frigate like a bookCommenta
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a page
Of prancing Poetry-
This Travel may the poorest take
Without oppress of a Toll-
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul.
Sono più miti le mattineCommenta
E più scure diventano le noci
E le bacche hanno un viso più rotondo,
La rosa non è più nella città.
L'acero indossa una sciarpa più gaia,
E la campagna una gonna scarlatta.
Ed anch'io, per non essere antiquata,
Mi metterò un gioiello.
To her derided HomeCommenta
A Weed of Summer came -
She did not know her station low
Nor Ignominy's name -
Bestowed a summer long
Upon a frameless flower -
Then swept as lightly from disdain
As Lady from her Bower -
Of Bliss the Codes are few -
As Jesus cites of Him -
"Come unto me" the Moiety
That wafts the Seraphim.
'Tis not the swaying frame we miss -Commenta
It is the steadfast Heart,
That had it beat a thousand years,
With Love alone had bent -
It's fervor the electric Oar,
That bore it through the Tomb -
Ourselves, denied the privilege,
My Wars are laid away in Books -Commenta
I have one Battle more -
A Foe whom I have never seen
But oft has scanned me o'er -
And hesitated me between
And others at my side,
But chose the best - Neglecting me - till
All the rest have died -
How sweet if I am not forgot
By Chums that passed away -
Since Playmates at threescore and ten
Are such a scarcity.