"quainter" poems - Hello Poetry

679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word— Neither Place—need I present Him— Fitter Courtesy Hospitable intuition Of His Company— Presence—is His furthest license— Neither He to Me Nor Myself to Him—by Accent— Forfeit Probity— Weariness of Him, were quainter Than Monotony Knew a Particle—of Space’s Vast Society Neither if He visit Other— Do He dwell—or Nay—know I— But Instinct esteem Him Immortality—

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Emily Dickinson

Conscious am I in my Chamber

679 Conscious am I in my Chamber, Of a shapeless friend— He doth not attest by Posture— Nor Confirm—by Word— Neither Place—need I present Him— Fitter Courtesy Hospitable intuition Of His Company— Presence—is His furthest license— Neither He to Me Nor Myself to Him—by Accent— Forfeit Probity— Weariness of Him, were quainter Than Monotony Knew a Particle—of Space’s Vast Society Neither if He visit Other— Do He dwell—or Nay—know I— But Instinct esteem Him Immortality—

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321 Of all the Sounds despatched abroad, There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boughs— That phraseless Melody— The Wind does—working like a Hand, Whose fingers Comb the Sky— Then quiver down—with tufts of Tune— Permitted Gods, and me— Inheritance, it is, to us— Beyond the Art to Earn— Beyond the trait to take away By Robber, since the Gain Is gotten not of fingers— And inner than the Bone— Hid golden, for the whole of Days, And even in the Urn, I cannot vouch the merry Dust Do not arise and play In some odd fashion of its own, Some quainter Holiday, When Winds go round and round in Bands— And thrum upon the door, And Birds take places, overhead, To bear them Orchestra. I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs, If such an Outcast be— Who never heard that fleshless Chant— Rise—solemn—on the Tree, As if some Caravan of Sound Off Deserts, in the Sky, Had parted Rank, Then knit, and swept— In Seamless Company—

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1.8k

Emily Dickinson

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

321 Of all the Sounds despatched abroad, There’s not a Charge to me Like that old measure in the Boughs— That phraseless Melody— The Wind does—working like a Hand, Whose fingers Comb the Sky— Then quiver down—with tufts of Tune— Permitted Gods, and me— Inheritance, it is, to us— Beyond the Art to Earn— Beyond the trait to take away By Robber, since the Gain Is gotten not of fingers— And inner than the Bone— Hid golden, for the whole of Days, And even in the Urn, I cannot vouch the merry Dust Do not arise and play In some odd fashion of its own, Some quainter Holiday, When Winds go round and round in Bands— And thrum upon the door, And Birds take places, overhead, To bear them Orchestra. I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs, If such an Outcast be— Who never heard that fleshless Chant— Rise—solemn—on the Tree, As if some Caravan of Sound Off Deserts, in the Sky, Had parted Rank, Then knit, and swept— In Seamless Company—

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I'm a stable chaos Living lucidly lost Destructively balanced With life and death crossed I'm a cursed romantic A solitary horror My path is satanic I'm bounded to torture My feelings fade dimly My care will start dying This world has grown quainter There's no point in trying.

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Nov 26, 2018

Nov 26, 2018 at 12:40 PM UTC

PeacefulMoth

Sardonic Smile

I'm a stable chaos Living lucidly lost Destructively balanced With life and death crossed I'm a cursed romantic A solitary horror My path is satanic I'm bounded to torture My feelings fade dimly My care will start dying This world has grown quainter There's no point in trying.

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She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face With flashes of the old fun's animation There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation Bred of a past where troubles came apace. She tells me that her husband, ere he died, Saw seven of their children pass away, And never knew the little lass at play Out on the green, in whom he's deified. Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone, All simple faith her honest Irish mind, Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on: Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part, Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.

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William Ernest Henley

Scrubber

She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face With flashes of the old fun's animation There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation Bred of a past where troubles came apace. She tells me that her husband, ere he died, Saw seven of their children pass away, And never knew the little lass at play Out on the green, in whom he's deified. Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone, All simple faith her honest Irish mind, Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on: Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part, Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.

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tears dried, before you could leave behind our rendezvous; but the touch stay(s), how could it ever fray when you kissed me quite insane, cut me free from the shackles of this suffocating world? had enough of this city growl: off i go, my soul and me; help me search who i can be; I belong in quainter end-of-worlds; Darling, you're and art in yourself, an artistic brilliance; please help?

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Jul 8, 2017

Jul 8, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC

sadakilamak

please help?

tears dried, before you could leave behind our rendezvous; but the touch stay(s), how could it ever fray when you kissed me quite insane, cut me free from the shackles of this suffocating world? had enough of this city growl: off i go, my soul and me; help me search who i can be; I belong in quainter end-of-worlds; Darling, you're and art in yourself, an artistic brilliance; please help?

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