Poems List
To die
To die--takes just a little while--
They say it doesn't hurt-It's
only fainter--by degrees--
And then--it's out of sight--
A darker Ribbon--for a Day--
A Crape upon the Hat--
And then the pretty sunshine comes--
And helps us to forget--
The absent--mystic--creature--
That but for love of us--
Had gone to sleep--that soundest time--
Without the weariness--
A precious—mouldering pleasure
371
A precious—mouldering pleasure—'tis—
To meet an Antique Book—
In just the Dress his Century wore—
A privilege—I think—
His venerable Hand to take—
And warming in our own—
A passage back—or two—to make—
To Times when he—was young—
His quaint opinions—to inspect—
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind—
The Literature of Man—
What interested Scholars—most—
What Competitions ran—
When Plato—was a Certainty—
And Sophocles—a Man—
When Sappho—was a living Girl—
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante—deified—
Facts Centuries before
He traverses—familiar—
As One should come to Town—
And tell you all your Dreams—were true—
He lived—where Dreams were born—
His presence is Enchantment—
You beg him not to go—
Old Volume shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize—just so—
A Planted Life-diversified
806
A Planted Life-diversified
With Gold and Silver Pain
To prove the presence of the Ore
In Particles-'tis when
A Value struggle-it exist-
A Power-will proclaim
Although Annihilation pile
Whole Chaoses on Him-
'Tis true—They shut me in the Cold
538
'Tis true—They shut me in the Cold—
But then—Themselves were warm
And could not know the feeling 'twas—
Forget it—Lord—of Them—
Let not my Witness hinder Them
In Heavenly esteem—
No Paradise could be—Conferred
Through Their beloved Blame—
The Harm They did—was short—And since
Myself—who bore it—do—
Forgive Them—Even as Myself—
Or else—forgive not me—
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!
172
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!
If I should fail, what poverty!
And yet, as poor as I,
Have ventured all upon a throw!
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so-
This side the Victory!
Life is but Life! And Death, but Death!
Bliss is, but Bliss, and Breath but Breath!
And if indeed I fail,
At least, to know the worst, is sweet!
Defeat means nothing but Defeat,
No drearier, can befall!
And if I gain! Oh Gun at Sea!
Oh Bells, that in the Steeples be!
At first, repeat it slow!
For Heaven is a different thing,
Conjectured, and waked sudden in-
And might extinguish me!
A nearness to Tremendousness
963
A nearness to Tremendousness-
An Agony procures-
Affliction ranges Boundlessness-
Vicinity to Laws
Contentment's quiet Suburb-
Affliction cannot stay
In Acres-Its Location
Is Illocality-
'Tis Opposites-entice
355
'Tis Opposites-entice-
Deformed Men-ponder Grace-
Bright fires-the Blanketless-
The Lost-Day's face-
The Blind-esteem it be
Enough Estate-to see-
The Captive-strangles new-
For deeming-Beggars-play-
To lack-enamor Thee-
Tho' the Divinity-
Be only
Me-
A Murmur in the Trees-to note
416
A Murmur in the Trees-to note-
Not loud enough-for Wind-
A Star-not far enough to seek-
Nor near enough-to find-
A long-long Yellow-on the Lawn-
A Hubbub-as of feet-
Not audible-as Ours-to Us-
But dapperer-More Sweet-
A Hurrying Home of little Men
To Houses unperceived-
All this-and more-if I should tell-
Would never be believed-
Of Robins in the Trundle bed
How many I espy
Whose Nightgowns could not hide the Wings-
Although I heard them try-
But then I promised ne'er to tell-
How could I break My Word?
So go your Way-and I'll go Mine-
No fear you'll miss the Road.
A Mien to move a Queen
283
A Mien to move a Queen-
Half Child-Half Heroine-
An Orleans in the Eye
That puts its manner by
For humbler Company
When none are near
Even a Tear-
Its frequent Visitor-
A Bonnet like a Duke-
And yet a Wren's Peruke
Were not so shy
Of Goer by-
And Hands-so slight-
They would elate a Sprite
With Merriment-
A Voice that Alters-Low
And on the Ear can go
Like Let of Snow-
Or shift supreme-
As tone of Realm
On Subjects Diadem-
Too small-to fear-
Too distant-to endear-
And so Men Compromise
And just-revere-
'Tis not that Dying hurts us so
335
'Tis not that Dying hurts us so'
Tis Living-hurts us more-
But Dying-is a different way-
A Kind behind the Door-
The Southern Custom-of the Bird-
That ere the Frosts are due-
Accepts a better LatitudeWe-
are the Birds-that stay.
The Shrivers round Farmers' doors-
For whose reluctant Crumb-
We stipulate-till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.
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