An Essay on Criticism
by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

’Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
But, of the two, less dang’rous is th’ Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.

’Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critick’s Share;
Both must alike from Heav’n derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excell,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, ’tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?

Continue reading …

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Evening
by John Clare (1793-1864)

’Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love’s name.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.

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Go to the Grave
by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864)

Go to the grave where friends are laid,
And learn how quickly mortals fade,
Learn how the fairest flower must droop,
Learn how the strongest form must stoop,
Learn that we are but dust and clay,
The short-liv’d creatures of a day.
Yet do not sigh — there is a clime,
Where they will dwell through endless time,
Who here on earth their Maker serve,
And never from his precepts swerve.
The grave to them is but a road,
That leads them to that blest abode.

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Each and All
by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
Of thee from the hill-top looking down;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor’s creed has lent.
All are needed by each one;
Nothing is fair or good alone.
I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,
Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
For I did not bring home the river and sky;—
He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.
The delicate shells lay on the shore;
The bubbles of the latest wave
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,
I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore
With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
The lover watched his graceful maid,
As ’mid the virgin train she strayed,
Nor knew her beauty’s best attire
Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
At last she came to his hermitage,
Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;—
The gay enchantment was undone,
A gentle wife, but fairy none.
Then I said, “I covet truth;
Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat;
I leave it behind with the games of youth:”—
As I spoke, beneath my feet
The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;
I inhaled the violet’s breath;
Around me stood the oaks and firs;
Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;
Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of deity;
Again I saw, again I heard,
The rolling river, the morning bird;—
Beauty through my senses stole;
I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

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Frühlingslust
by Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866)

Der Frühling lacht von grünen Höh’n,
         Es steht vor ihm die Welt so schön,
         Als seien eines Dichters Träume
         Getreten sichtbar in die Räume.

Wann schöpferisch aus Morgenduft
         Der Sonne Strahl die Wesen ruft,
         Kehrt jedes Herz sich, jede Blume
         Empor zum lichten Heiligthume.

Der Frühling giebt im Walde Tanz,
         Und alle Blumen nah’n im Glanz,
         Wo Mädchen vorzustellen haben
         Die Rosen, und Jasmine Knaben.

Des Paradieses Pforten sind
         Nun aufgethan im Morgenwind,
         Und auf die Erde strömt vom Osten
         Der Duft, den sonst die Sel’gen kosten.

Nun lebt, berührt vom Liebeshauch,
         Das Leben neu, und Todtes auch;
         Der starre Fels vor Sehnsucht bebet,
         Bis auch ein Epheu ihn umwebet.

O Frühlingsodem, Liebeslust,
         O Glück der felsentreuen Brust,
         Die ein Geliebtes an sich drücket,
         Das dankbar sie mit Kränzen schmücket!

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Much Madness Is Divinest Sense
by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye ;
Much sense the starkest madness.
’T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane ;
Demur, — you’re straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.

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A Noiseless Patient Spider
by Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

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L’Oiseau Bleu
by Alphonse Daudet (1840-1897)

J’ai dans mon cœur un oiseau bleu,
Une charmante créature,
Si mignonne que sa ceinture
N’a pas l’épaisseur d’un cheveu

Il lui faut du sang pour pâture.
Bien longtemps, je me fis un jeu
De lui donner sa nourriture :
Les petits oiseaux mangent peu.

Mais, sans en rien laisser paraître,
Dans mon cœur il a fait, le traître,
Un trou large comme la main,

Et son bec, fin comme une lame,
En continuant son chemin,
M’est entré jusqu’au fond de l’âme!

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