When, dearest, I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise
Are like the grace of deities,
Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the day
With all his borrow’d lights away,
Till night’s black wings do overtake me,
Thinking on thee,...
I think I was enchanted
When first a sombre Girl —
I read that Foreign Lady —
The Dark — felt beautiful —
And whether it was noon at night —
Or only Heaven — at Noon —
For very Lunacy of Light
I had not power to tell —
The Bees — became as Butterflies —
The...
I think just how my shape will rise —
When I shall be "forgiven" —
Till Hair — and Eyes — and timid Head —
Are out of sight — in Heaven —
I think just how my lips will weigh —
With shapeless — quivering — prayer —
That you — so late — "Consider" me —
The "Sparrow" of your Care —
...
I think that the Root of the Wind is Water —
It would not sound so deep
Were it a Firmamental Product —
Airs no Oceans keep —
Mediterranean intonations —
To a Current's Ear —
There is a maritime conviction
In the Atmosphere —
I think the Hemlock likes to stand
Upon a Marge of Snow —
It suits his own Austerity —
And satisfies an awe
That men, must slake in Wilderness —
And in the Desert — cloy —
An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald —
Lapland's — necessity —
The Hemlock's nature thrives — on...
I think the longest Hour of all
Is when the Cars have come —
And we are waiting for the Coach —
It seems as though the Time
Indignant — that the Joy was come —
Did block the Gilded Hands —
And would not let the Seconds by —
But slowest instant — ends —
The Pendulum...
I think to Live — may be a Bliss
To those who dare to try —
Beyond my limit to conceive —
My lip — to testify —
I think the Heart I former wore
Could widen — till to me
The Other, like the little Bank
Appear — unto the Sea —
I think the Days — could every one
...
I tried to think a lonelier Thing
Than any I had seen —
Some Polar Expiation — An Omen in the Bone
Of Death's tremendous nearness —
I probed Retrieveless things
My Duplicate — to borrow —
A Haggard Comfort springs
From the belief that Somewhere —
Within the Clutch of...
Of Death I try to think like this —
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,
But to invite by that Dismay
Which is the Zest of sweetness
To the same Flower Hesperian,
Decoying but to greet us —
I do remember when a Child...
Perhaps you think me stooping
I'm not ashamed of that
Christ — stooped until He touched the Grave —
Do those at Sacrament
Commemorative Dishonor
Or love annealed of love
Until it bend as low as Death
Redignified, above?
