His Bill is clasped — his Eye forsook —
His Feathers wilted low —
The Claws that clung, like lifeless Gloves
Indifferent hanging now —
The Joy that in his happy Throat
Was waiting to be poured
Gored through and through with Death, to be
Assassin of a Bird
Resembles to my outraged...
His Heart was darker than the starless night
For that there is a morn
But in this black Receptacle
Can be no Bode of Dawn
His little Hearse like Figure
Unto itself a Dirge
To a delusive Lilac
The vanity divulge
Of Industry and Morals
And every righteous thing
For the divine Perdition
Of Idleness and Spring —
His Mind like Fabrics of the East
Displayed to the despair
Of everyone but here and there
An humble Purchaser —
For though his price was not of Gold —
More arduous there is —
That one should comprehend the worth
Was all the price there was —
His mind of man, a secret makes
I meet him with a start
He carries a circumference
In which I have no part —
Or even if I deem I do
He otherwise may know
Impregnable to inquest
However neighborly —
His oriental heresies
Exhilarate the Bee,
And filling all the Earth and Air
With gay apostasy
Fatigued at last, a Clover plain
Allures his jaded eye
That lowly Breast where Butterflies
Have felt it meet to die —
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Holy Thursday[1]
Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich & fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery?
Fed with cold & usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so...
Maiden! in whose kindling eye,
Burns the fire of prophecy,
On whose brow its glories shine,
Priestess at the hidden shrine;
Tell me what fair visions rise,
As the future greets thine eyes.
Thither where thou still dost turn,
Does...
Hope is a subtle Glutton —
He feeds upon the Fair —
And yet — inspected closely
What Abstinence is there —
His is the Halcyon Table —
That never seats but One —
And whatsoever is consumed
The same amount remain —