Tag Archives: wear

I’ll clutch — and clutch –

I'll clutch -- and clutch --I’ll clutch — and clutch –
Next — One — Might be the golden touch –
Could take it –
Diamonds — Wait –
I’m diving — just a little late –
But stars — go slow — for night –

I’ll string you — in fine Necklace –
Tiaras — make — of some –
Wear you on Hem –
Loop up a Countess — with you –
Make — a Diadem — and mend my old One –
Count — Hoard — then lose –
And doubt that you are mine –
To have the joy of feeling it — again –

I’ll show you at the Court –
Bear you — for Ornament
Where Women breathe –
That every sigh — may lift you
Just as high — as I –

And — when I die –
In meek array — display you –
Still to show — how rich I go –
Lest Skies impeach a wealth so wonderful –
And banish me –

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It don’t sound so terrible — quite — as it did –

It don't sound so terrible -- quite -- as it did --It don’t sound so terrible — quite — as it did –
I run it over — “Dead”, Brain, “Dead.”
Put it in Latin — left of my school –
Seems it don’t shriek so — under rule.

Turn it, a little — full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest –
Shift it — just –
Say “When Tomorrow comes this way –
I shall have waded down one Day.”

I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed — but then the Tomb
Like other new Things — shows largest — then –
And smaller, by Habit –

It’s shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance — a Year –
How like “a fit” — then –
Murder — wear!

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I’m saying every day

I'm saying every dayI’m saying every day
“If I should be a Queen, tomorrow” –
I’d do this way –
And so I deck, a little,

If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
None on me, bend supercilious –
With “This was she –
Begged in the Market place –
Yesterday.”

Court is a stately place –
I’ve heard men say –
So I loop my apron, against the Majesty
With bright Pins of Buttercup –
That not too plain –
Rank — overtake me –

And perch my Tongue
On Twigs of singing — rather high –
But this, might be my brief Term
To qualify –

Put from my simple speech all plain word –
Take other accents, as such I heard
Though but for the Cricket — just,
And but for the Bee –
Not in all the Meadow –
One accost me –

Better to be ready –
Than did next morn
Meet me in Aragon –
My old Gown — on –

And the surprised Air
Rustics — wear –
Summoned — unexpectedly –
To Exeter –

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Although I put away his life –

Although I put away his life --Although I put away his life –
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand

That sowed the flower, he preferred –
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path –
Or played his chosen tune –

On Lute the least — the latest –
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go –

The foot to bear his errand –
A little Boot I know –
Would leap abroad like Antelope –
With just the grant to do –

His weariest Commandment –
A sweeter to obey,
Than “Hide and Seek” –
Or skip to Flutes –
Or all Day, chase the Bee –

Your Servant, Sir, will weary –
The Surgeon, will not come –
The World, will have its own — to do –
The Dust, will vex your Fame –

The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay –

That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me –
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first — to me.

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Of Tribulation, these are They

Of Tribulation, these are TheyOf Tribulation, these are They,
Denoted by the White –
The Spangled Gowns, a lesser Rank
Of Victors — designate –

All these — did conquer –
But the ones who overcame most times –
Wear nothing commoner than Snow –
No Ornament, but Palms –

Surrender — is a sort unknown –
On this superior soil –
Defeat — an outgrown Anguish –
Remembered, as the Mile

Our panting Ankle barely passed –
When Night devoured the Road –
But we — stood whispering in the House –
And all we said — was “Saved”!

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Tho’ my destiny be Fustian –

Tho' my destiny be Fustian --Tho’ my destiny be Fustian –
Hers be damask fine –
Tho’ she wear a silver apron –
I, a less divine –

Still, my little Gypsy being
I would far prefer,
Still, my little sunburnt bosom
To her Rosier,

For, when Frosts, their punctual fingers
On her forehead lay,
You and I, and Dr. Holland,
Bloom Eternally!

Roses of a steadfast summer
In a steadfast land,
Where no Autumn lifts her pencil –
And no Reapers stand!