Fame is a bee.
It has a song --
It has a sting --
Ah, too, it has a wing.
“Fame is a Bee” (1788) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
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Tag Archives: American Poetry
“Birds of Prey” by Claude McKay [w/ Audio]
Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven -- birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.
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“A Man Said to the Universe” by Stephen Crane [w/ Audio]
A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."
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“Gliding O’er All” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
Gliding o'er all, through all,
Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul -- not life alone,
Death, many deaths I'll sing.
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“I taste a liquor never brewed” (214) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
I taste a liquor never brewed --
From Tankards scooped in Pearl --
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air -- I am --
And Debauchee of Dew --
Reeling -- thro' endless summer days --
From inns of molten blue --
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door --
When Butterflies -- renounce their "drams" --
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats --
And Saints -- to windows run --
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the -- Sun!
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“All overgrown by cunning moss,” (146) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of "Currer Bell"
In quiet "Haworth" laid.
This Bird -- observing others
When frosts too sharp became
Retire to other latitudes --
Quietly did the same --
But differed in returning --
Since Yorkshire hills are green --
Yet not in all the nests I meet --
Can Nightengale be seen --
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“Meditation” by Amy Lowell [w/ Audio]
A wise man,
Watching the stars pass across the sky,
Remarked:
In the upper air the fireflies move more slowly.
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“A Glimpse” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
A glimpse through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-
room around the stove late of a winter night,
and I unremark'd seated in a corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love,
silently approaching and seating himself near,
that he may hold me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and
going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together,
speaking little, perhaps not a word.
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“One’s-Self I Sing” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
One's-Self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is
worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete
is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws
divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
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“The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants” (1350) by Emily Dickinson
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants --
At Evening, it is not
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stop opon a Spot
As if it tarried always
And yet it's whole Career
Is shorter than a Snake's Delay --
And fleeter than a Tare --
'Tis Vegetation's Juggler --
The Germ of Alibi --
Doth like a Bubble antedate
And like a Bubble, hie --
I feel as if the Grass was pleased
To have it intermit --
This surreptitious Scion
Of Summer's circumspect.
Had Nature any supple Face
Or could she one contemn --
Had Nature an Apostate --
That Mushroom -- it is Him!
Tiger Riding for Beginners 