I can wade Grief—Whole Pools of it—I'm used to that—But the least push of JoyBreaks up my feet—And I tip—drunken—Let no Pebble—smile—'Twas the New Liquor—That was all!

Who never wanted, ― maddest joyRemains to him unknown ;The banquet of abstemiousnessSurpasses that of wine.Within its hope, though yet ungraspedDesire's perfect goal,No nearer, lest realityShould disenthrall thy soul.

Undue significance a starving man attaches to foodFar off ; he sighs, and therefore hopeless,And therefore good.Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves usThat spices flyIn the receipt. It was the distanceWas savory.

Hope is the thing with feathersThat 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 stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.I've heard it in the chilliest landAnd on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.

I many times thought peace had come, When peace was far away; As wrecked men deem they sight the land At centre of the sea, And struggle slacker, but to prove, As hopelessly as I, How many the fictitious shores Before the harbor lie.

We never know how high we areTill we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,Our statures touch the skies.The heroism we reciteWould be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warpFor fear to be a king.

In a serener Bright, In a more golden light I see Each little doubt and fear, Each little discord here Removed.

Crumbling is not an instant's ActA fundamental pauseDilapidation's processesAre organized Decays.'Tis first a Cobweb on the SoulA Cuticle of DustA Borer in the AxisAn Elemental Rust—Ruin is formal—Devil's workConsecutive and slow—Fail in an instant, no man didSlipping—is Crash's law.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?