Poems List

On a Columnar Self

On a Columnar Self

789

On a Columnar Self-
How ample to rely
In Tumult-or Extremity-
How good the Certainty

That Lever cannot pry-
And Wedge cannot divide
Conviction-That Granitic Base-
Though None be on our Side-

Suffice Us-for a CrowdOurself-
and Rectitude-
And that Assembly-not far off
From furthest Spirit-God-
👁️ 348

Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause?

Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause?

947

Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause?
"A Soul has gone to Heaven"
I'm answered in a lonesome tone-
Is Heaven then a Prison?


That Bells should ring till all should know
A Soul had gone to Heaven
Would seem to me the more the way
A Good News should be given.
👁️ 275

Of nearness to her sundered Things

Of nearness to her sundered Things

607

Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times-
When Dimness-looks the OddityDistinctness-
easy-seems-


The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms-
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes-


In just the Jacket that he wore-
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we-old mornings, Children-playedDivided-
by a world-


The Grave yields back her Robberies-
The Years, our pilfered Things-
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings-


As we-it were-that perishedThemself-
had just remained till we rejoin them-
And 'twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.
👁️ 237

Of Consciousness, her awful Mate

Of Consciousness, her awful Mate

894

Of Consciousness, her awful Mate
The Soul cannot be rid-
As easy the secreting her
Behind the Eyes of God.

The deepest hid is sighted first
And scant to Him the Crowd-
What triple Lenses burn upon
The Escapade from God-
👁️ 260

Of Bronze—and Blaze

Of Bronze—and Blaze

290

Of Bronze—and Blaze—
The North—Tonight—
So adequate—it forms—
So preconcerted with itself—
So distant—to alarms—
And Unconcern so sovereign
To Universe, or me—
Infects my simple spirit
With Taints of Majesty—
Till I take vaster attitudes—
And strut upon my stem—
Disdaining Men, and Oxygen,
For Arrogance of them—


My Splendors, are Menagerie—
But their Completeless Show
Will entertain the Centuries
When I, am long ago,
An Island in dishonored Grass—
Whom none but Beetles—know.
👁️ 194

Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

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 ChantRise-
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-
👁️ 352

Not that We did, shall be the test

Not that We did, shall be the test

823

Not that We did, shall be the test
When Act and Will are done
But what Our Lord infers We would
Had We diviner been-
👁️ 272

Not in this world to see his face

Not in this world to see his face

Not in this world to see his face
Sounds long, until I read the place
Where this is said to be
But just the primer to a life
Unopened, rare, upon the shelf,
Clasped yet to him and me.


And yet, my primer suits me so
I would not choose a book to know
Than that, be sweeter wise;
Might some one else so learned be.
And leave me just my A B C,
Himself could have the skies.
👁️ 193

Not Revelation-'tis-that waits

Not "Revelation"-'tis-that waits

685

Not "Revelation"-'tis-that waits,
But our unfurnished eyes-
👁️ 353

Noon—is the Hinge of Day

Noon—is the Hinge of Day

931

Noon—is the Hinge of Day—
Evening—the Tissue Door—
Morning—the East compelling the sill
Till all the World is ajar—
👁️ 235

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