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What If I Say

What if I say I shall not wait!
What if I burst the fleshly Gate-
And pass, escaped- to thee!

What if I file this Mortal- off-
See where it hurt me- That?s enough-
And wade in Liberty!

They cannot take me- any more!
Dungeons can call- and Guns implore;
Unmeaning- now- to me-

As laughter- was- an hour ago-
Or Laces- or a Traveling Show-
Or Who died- yesterday!

/By: Emily Dickinson   (1830 - 1886)/ 

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Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without 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 keeps so many warm.

I?ve heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet, never, in extremity
It ask a crumb of me.

/By: Emily Dickinson   (1830 - 1886)/ 

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Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

/By: Leigh Hunt   (1784 - 1859)/ 

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I am in love with him 
To whom a hyacinth is dearer 
Than I shall ever be dear.

On nights when the field-mice
Are abroad, he cannot sleep.
He hears their narrow teeth
At the bulbs of his hyacinths.

But the gnawing  at my heart...
He does not hear.

/By: Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)/ 

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A flower was offered to me:
Such a flower as May never bore.
But I said "I've a Pretty Rose-tree",
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree:
To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turn'd away with jealousy:
And her thorns were my only delight.

/By: William Blake   (1757 - 1827)/ 

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The grave my little cottage is,
Where, keeping house for thee,
I make my parlor orderly,
And lay the marble tea,

For two divided, briefly,
A cycle, it may be,
'Till everlasting life unite
In strong society.

/By: Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)/ 

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A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction --
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher --
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly --
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat --
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility --
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

/By: Robert Herrick   (1591 - 1674)/ 

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Consider this small dust, here in the glass,
By atoms moved:
Could you believe that this the body was 
Of one that loved;
And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

/By: Ben Jonson   (1572 - 1637)/ 

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I sometimes think that never blows so red 
The rose as where some buried Caesar bled.
That every hyacinth the garden wears;
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head.

/By: Omar Khayyam   (1048 - 1131)/ 

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My true-love hath my heart and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given;
I hold his dear and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

His heart in me keeps him and me in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides.
My true-love hath my heart and I have his.

/By: Philip Sidney   (1554 - 1586)/ 

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Since there's not help, come let us kiss and part;
Nay, I am done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows 
That we, one jot of former love retain.
Now, at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And innocence is closing up his eyes,
Now, if thou woulds't, when all have given him over,
From death to life Thou might'st him yet recover.

/By: Michael Drayton   (1563 - 1631)/ 

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So, the year's done with
( Love me forever! )
All March begun with,
April's endeavour;

May-wreaths that bound me
June needs must sever;
Now snows fall round me,
Quenching June's fever...

( Love me forever! )

/By: Robert Browning (1812 - 1889)/ 

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My heart is what it was before,
A house where people come and go
But it is winter with your love,
The sashes are beset with snow.

I light the lamp and lay the cloth,
I blow the coals to blaze again
But it is winter with your love 
The frost is thick upon the pane

I know a winter when it comes
The leaves are listless on the boughs;
I watched your love a little while 
And brought my plants into the house.

I water them and turned them south,
I snap the dead brown from the stem
But it is winter with your love,
I only tend and water them.

There was a time I stood and watched
The small ill-natured sparrows' fray
I loved the beggar that I fed,
I cared for what he had to say.

I stood and watched him out of sight;
Today I reach around the door
And set a bowl upon the step
My heart is what it was before.

But it is winter with your love;
I scatter crumbs upon the sill
And close the window - and the birds
May take or leave them, as they will.

/By: Edna St. Vincent Millay   (1892-1950)/ 

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There are little traits that keep me bound...
I think of nothing else save the bright face of my lady-

Ah me!  Her swan-white throat, her strong chin,
Her fresh laughing mouth which daily seems to say, 
"Come kiss me, love, kiss me once again!

Her regal nose, her smiling grey eyes- 
(That thieve to steal a lovers heart)- 
And her brown tresses that wildly fly. 
Each have wounded me as with a dart

So amorous are these that I deem they will slay me.
Ah God, ah God! Alas, who will save me?

/By: Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)/ 

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Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one 
And let them go scraping and creeping 
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things, 
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

/by Robert  Frost/ 

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