Like lead his feet were
Like leaves in wintry weather
Like leviathans afloat
Like lighting a candle to the sun
Like making a mountain out of a mole-hill
Like mariners pulling the life-boat
Like mice that steal in and out as if they feared the light
Like mountain over mountain huddled
Like mountain streams we meet and part
Like music on the water
Like notes which die when born, but still haunt the echoes of the hill
Like oceans of liquid silver
Like one pale star against the dusk, a single diamond on her brow gleamed with imprisoned fire
Like one who halts with tired wings
Like one who talks of what he loves in dream
Like organ music came the deep reply
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream
Like phantoms gathered by the sick imagination
Like planets in the sky
Like pouring oil on troubled waters
Like roses that in deserts bloom and die
Like rowing upstream against a strong downward current
Like scents from a twilight garden
Like separated souls
Like serpents struggling in a vulture"s grasp
Like sheep from out the fold of the sky, stars leapt
Like ships that have gone down at sea
Like shy elves hiding from the traveler"s eye
Like skeletons, the sycamores uplift their wasted hands
Like some grave night thought threading a dream
Like some new-gathered snowy hyacinth, so white and cold and delicate it was
Like some poor nigh-related guest, that may not rudely be dismist
Like some suppressed and hideous thought which flits athwart our musings, but can find no rest within a pure and gentle mind
Like some unshriven churchyard thing, the friar crawled
Like something fashioned in a dream
Like sounds of wind and flood
Like splendor-winged moths about a taper
Like stepping out on summer evenings from the glaring ball-room
upon the cool and still piazza
Like straws in a gust of wind
Like summer"s beam and summer"s stream
Like sunlight, in and out the leaves, the robins went
Like sweet thoughts in a dream
Like the awful shadow of some unseen power
Like the bellowing of bulls
Like the boar encircled by hunters and hounds
Like the bubbles on a river sparkling, bursting, borne away
Like the cold breath of the grave
Like the creaking of doors held stealthily ajar
Like the cry of an itinerant vendor in a quiet and picturesque town