As one who, leaning on the wall, once drew 
Thick blossoms down, and hearkened to the hum 
Of heavy bees slow rounding the wet plum, 
And heard across the fields the patient coo
Of restless birds bewildered with the dew.

As one whose thoughts were mad in painful May,
With melancholy eyes turned toward her love,
And toward the troubled earth whereunder throve
The chilly rye and coming hawthorn spray—
With one lean, pacing hound, for company.

A butterfly dancing in the sunlight, 
A bird singing to his mate, 
The whispering pines, 
The restless sea, 
The gigantic mountains, 
A stately tree,
The rain upon the roof, 
The sun at early dawn,
A boy with rod and hook,
The babble of a shady brook, 
A woman with her smiling babe, 
A man whose eyes are kind and wise, 
Youth that is eager and unafraid—
When all is said, I do love best
A little home where love abides, 
And where there’s kindness, peace, and rest.

With a difference —Hamlet.

Again the bloom, the northward flight, 
The fount freed at its silver height, 
And down the deep woods to the lowest, 
The fragrant shadows scarred with light.

O inescapable joy of spring! 
For thee the world shall leap and sing;
But by her darkened door thou goest 
Forever as a spectral thing.

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

Near the end of April 
   On the verge of May—
And o my heart, the woods were dusk 
   At the close of day.

Half a word was spoken
   Out of half a dream,
And God looked in my soul and saw 
   A dawn rise and gleam.

Near the end of April
   Twenty Mays have met,
And half a word and half a dream 
   Remember and forget.

Without your showers, I breed no flowers,

    Each field a barren waste appears;

If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep,

    They take such pleasures in your tears.

As your decay made room for May,

    So I must part with all that’s mine:

My balmy breeze, my blooming trees

    To torrid suns their sweets resign!

O’er April dead, my shades I spread:

    To her I owe my dress so gay—

Of daughters three, it falls on me

    To close our triumphs on one day:

Thus, to repose, all Nature goes;

    Month after month must find its doom:

Time on the wing, May ends the Spring,

    And Summer dances on her tomb!

                      I.

The merry morn is waking
    In all its rosy light, 
While fogs and dreams are taking
    Flight, with the drowsy night;
Soft eyelashes and roses
    Open with hope new-born, 
And everything discloses
    The happy touch of morn.

And everything is singing 
    A morning hymn to love,
Flowers and tendrils springing 
    To greet the trees above;
The streams speak to the fountains, 
    The breezes to the pines,
The clouds unto the mountains, 
    The grapes unto the vines.

One throbbing pulse is shaking
    All Nature’s mighty frame,— 
The child its toys retaking,
    The ember’d grate its flame; 
Love, and folly, and madness,
    Petty aims, and grand, 
And fame, and hope, and gladness—
    To each one what he plann’d.

Still, whether loving or sighing,
    In the bridal garb or pall, 
We’re only drifting, flying
    To the final goal of all: 
We all seek what is ours,—
    A lad the joys of youth, 
A bee the daintiest flowers,
    Whilst I am seeking truth!

                      II.

O Truth! with deep devotion 
    I’ve plunged in depths profound,
And sought thee in the ocean 
    Where’er the plummets sound;
Tho’ fogs and mists may bind thee, 
    And shoals and sand-banks mock,
We’re sure at last to find thee, 
    As firm, as hard as rock!

O Truth! broad-breasted river
    Which never can be dry,
Where all may bathe for ever,
    And swim, or sink and die;
A lamp the great God places
    Near all our mortal things,
A light that always graces
    The thoughts a pure mind brings!

A gnarled tree in flower,
    Where strength and beauty blend,
Which each man, to his power,
    Shall either break or bend;
’Midwide-spread branches flinging
    Their shade, when day has sunk,
Some to the branches clinging,
    And others to the trunk.

A hill from which all floweth,
    A path which all have trod,
A gulf to which all goeth—
    The handiwork of God!
A star we’re still blaspheming, 
    Altho’, on nearer view,
After wild doubts and dreaming, 
    We’ll know its ray was true.

                      III.

O Earth! lit up with splendor
    At sunset and sunrise,
With gorgeous hues yet tender
    To suit our mortal eyes!
Shores where waves are dying!
    Woods where soft winds play!
O vast horizon! lying
    Round all things far away,

O glorious azure veiling 
    The gulf, till all is still;
Where idly floating, sailing 
    Where’er the breezes will,
I ’mid the reeds conceal me,
    And list with all my soul
To what the waves reveal me 
    In their majestic roll!

O glorious azure smiling 
    On all, from skies above,
Each wearied soul beguiling
    To dreams and thoughts of love;
And, while we’re dreaming, seeking
    To read the mystic spell,
That murmuring winds are speaking,
    That starry pages tell.

O mighty ocean wreathing,
    And girdling all the earth!
Stars which the Master’s breathing
    Call’d to their fiery birth!
Flowers whose hidden meaning
    We crush beneath our feet,
Tho’ God, perchance, is gleaning
    Honey from every sweet!

O valleys rich in May-time!
    O woodland shades and plains!
Where village towers in play-time
    Ring out their merry strains;
Hillocks and mountains bearing
    The vast skies on your breasts!
Bright stars a gay smile wearing
    Amid your gloomy nests!—

You are but one book’s pages 
    Where all may read and learn:
Where poets and where sages 
    May see what most they yearn:
Yet every thought unfurl’d there 
    Requires a mystic rod,
Tho’ some eyes see a world there, 
    And some souls find a God.

A Book which is completed 
    By virtuous deeds alone;
Where youthful dreams are greeted 
    By feelings still unknown;
Where those whom age has smitten 
    With wrinkled brows yet vast,
Have in the margin written 
    “Behold us come at last!”

A holy book concealing
    All deeds which God has done;
A thousand names revealing
    And yet revealing one—
A name that always leavens
    Whate’er we hold of worth,
But one name in the heavens,
    But one name on the earth.

A sure book, never failing,
    For all may drink its balm,
Tho’ midnight seers are paling
    Before they find its charm;
Pythagoras nearly guess’d it,
    And Moses knew it well,
And all have loved and bless’d it,
When once they learn’d the spell.

^{translated from the Danish by Sophia Hersi Smith and Jennifer Russell}

There lives a young girl in me who will not die,
she is no longer me, and I no longer her,
but she stares back when I look in the mirror,
searching for something she hopes to recover.

There is no one else in the world she can ask:
Where are the earnest smiles, the carefree dances?
Where are my dreams and the joy of twenty?
Tell me, have you made the most of my chances?

I try to catch that pale, shimmering gaze,
try to silence her questioning refrain,
and in the depths of my heart I hear a regret,
softly dripping like the sound of rain.

‘Your dreams were flimsy, child, and doomed to fail,
your innocence ruined by the truth you were told –
your budding hopes fell to the ground
the night reality invaded your soul.

‘You had a girl’s dream of a husband and baby,
and you got what you wanted but were still alone,
so you remained in childhood’s wondrous land,
while I am left roaming a world of stone.

‘It is by your sheer strength you have not died,
but live on somewhere as a faint likeness,
though I have sold your dreams for a roof and bread
and brought you pain I mistook for happiness.

‘And my only salvation is feeling your voice
as a surge in my heart’s languid beat –
you are my defence, my unrest and deepest comfort,
constant and true through time’s fickle retreat.’

There lives a young girl in me who cannot die
until I tire of believing I once was her.
She stares back when I look in the mirror,
searching for something she longs to recover.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

^{To a Friend.}

The shrine is vowed to freedom, but, my friend, 
Freedom is but a means to gain an end. 
Freedom should build the temple, but the shrine 
Be consecrate to thought still more divine. 
The human bliss which angel hopes foresaw 
Is liberty to comprehend the law. 
Give, then, thy book a larger scope and frame, 
Comprising means and end in Truth’s great name.