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Poet's Choice

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That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Without spectacular language, the poem attains the conviction of a polished, heartfelt plainness. In a later generation, Philip Freneau (1752-1832) of New Jersey writes a delicate lyric about an American flower. The splendid last lines seem to foreshadow the resourceful, attentive intelligence of Robert Frost:

THE WILD HONEY SUCKLE

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,

Hid in this silent dull retreat,

Untouch'd thy honey'd blossoms blow,

Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall find thee here,

No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white array'd,

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,

And planted here the guardian shade,

And sent soft waters murmuring by;