Category: Poetry
THIS mound is sweet to me. All my blood aches, Since driven onward like a dark hill-cloud, Dizzy with secret lightnings nowhere spent, I chase yon happy sun to his bright death, Alas, I know not whither: but I know I shall not see the myriad shields uphung In camp to-night, no...
_A Voice._ By Pompey’s certain pillar, he’s a Christian! The prancing gesture, see: the head upcast, The bosom all in a white wrath, and yet Bridled and bitted: that’s their dup...
1. Part 1THIS mound is sweet to me. All my blood aches, Since driven onward like a dark hill-cloud, Dizzy with secret lightnings nowhere spent, I chase yon happy sun to his bright death,...
3. Part 3THE spur is red upon the briar, The sea-kelp whips the wave ashore; The wind shakes out the colored fire From lamps a-row on the sycamore; The tanager, with flitting note, Shows...