The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight —
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation — not to Touch —
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West —
The Calyx is the Earth...
The Loneliness One dare not sound —
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size —
The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see —
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny —
The Horror not to be surveyed —
...
A pair of spectacles afar just stir —
An almanac 's aware.
Was it the mat winked,
Or a nervous star ?
The moon slides down the stair
To see who 's there.
There 's plunder, — where ?
Tankard, or spoon,
Earring, or stone,
A watch, some ancient brooch
To...
The lonesome for they know not What —
The Eastern Exiles — be —
Who strayed beyond the Amber line
Some madder Holiday —
And ever since — the purple Moat
They strive to climb — in vain —
As Birds — that tumble from the clouds
Do fumble at the strain —
The Blessed Ether...
The look of thee, what is it like
Hast thou a hand or Foot
Or Mansion of Identity
And what is thy Pursuit?
Thy fellows are they realms or Themes
Hast thou Delight or Fear
Or Longing — and is that for us
Or values more severe?
Let change transfuse all other Traits...
The Luxury to apprehend
The Luxury 'twould be
To look at Thee a single time
An Epicure of Me
In whatsoever Presence makes
Till for a further Food
I scarcely recollect to starve
So first am I supplied —
The Luxury to meditate
The Luxury it was
To...
The Malay — took the Pearl —
Not — I — the Earl —
I — feared the Sea — too much
Unsanctified — to touch —
Praying that I might be
Worthy — the Destiny —
The Swarthy fellow swam —
And bore my Jewel — Home —
Home to the Hut! What lot
Had I — the Jewel — got...
The Manner of its Death
When Certain it must die —
'Tis deemed a privilege to choose —
'Twas Major Andre's Way —
When Choice of Life — is past —
There yet remains a Love
Its little Fate to stipulate —
How small in those who live —
The Miracle to tease
...
The Martyr Poets — did not tell —
But wrought their Pang in syllable —
That when their mortal name be numb —
Their mortal fate — encourage Some —
The Martyr Painters — never spoke —
Bequeathing — rather — to their Work —
That when their conscious fingers cease —
Some seek in Art — the...