Hark what, now loud, now low, the pining flute complains Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Have ye seen the caterpillar He could condense cerulean ether He lives not who can refuse me He planted where the deluge ploughed He took the color of his vest He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare He who has no hands Hear what British Merlin sung Henceforth, please God, forever I forego Her passions the shy violet Her planted eye to-day controls High was her heart, and yet was well inclined Him strong Genius urged to roam His instant thought a poet spoke His tongue was framed to music Hold of the Maker, not the Made How much, preventing God, how much I owe I, Alphonso, live and learn I am not poor but I am proud I am not wiser for my age I am the Muse who sung alway I bear in youth and sad infirmities I cannot spare water or wine I do not count the hours I spend I framed his tongue to music I grieve that better souls than mine I have an arrow that will find its mark I have no brothers and no peers I have trod this path a hundred times I heard or seemed to hear the chiding Sea I hung my verses in the wind I left my dreary page and sallied forth I like a church; I like a cowl I love thy music, mellow bell I mourn upon this battle-field I rake no coffined clay, nor publish wide I reached the middle of the mount I said to heaven that glowed above I see all human wits I serve you not, if you I follow If bright the sun, he tarries If curses be the wage of love If I could put my woods in song If my darling should depart If the red slayer think he slays Ill fits the abstemious Muse a crown to weave Illusions like the tints of pearl Illusion works impenetrable In an age of fops and toys In countless upward-striving waves In Farsistan the violet spreads In many forms we try In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes In my garden three ways meet In the chamber, on the stairs In the deep heart of man a poet dwells In the suburb, in the town In the turbulent beauty In Walden wood the chickadee It fell in the ancient periods It is time to be old Knows he who tills this lonely field Let me go where'er I will Let Webster's lofty face Like vaulters in a circus round Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Long I followed happy guides Love asks nought his brother cannot give Love on his errand bound to go Love scatters oil Low and mournful be the strain Man was made of social earth Many things the garden shows May be true what I had heard Mine and yours Mine are the night and morning Mortal mixed of middle clay Nature centres into balls Never did sculptor's dream unfold Night-dreams trace on Memory's wall No fate, save by the victim's fault, is low Not in their houses stand the stars