To the Pending Year
Have I no weapon-word for thee—some message brief and fierce? (Have I fought out and done indeed the battle?) Is there no shot left, For all thy affectations, lisps, scorns, manifold silliness? Nor for myself—my own rebellious self in thee?
Down, down, proud gorge!—though choking thee; Thy bearded throat and high-borne forehead to the gutter; Crouch low thy neck to eleemosynary gifts.
Shakespeare-Bacon’s Cipher
I doubt it not—then more, far more; In each old song bequeath’d—in every noble page or text, (Different—something unreck’d before—some unsuspected author,) In every object, mountain, tree, and