The Suburbs of a Secret
A Strategist should keep,
Better than on a Dream intrude
To scrutinize the Sleep.
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The Sun and Moon must make their haste —
The Stars express around
For in the Zones of Paradise
The Lord alone is burned —
His Eye, it is the East and West —
The North and South when He
Do concentrate His Countenance
Like Glow Worms, flee away —
Oh Poor and Far —
...The Sun is gay or stark
According to our Deed.
If Merry, He is merrier —
If eager for the Dead
Or an expended Day
He helped to make too bright
His mighty pleasure suits Us not
It magnifies Our FreightThe Sun is one — and on the Tare
He doth as punctual call
As on the conscientious Flower
And estimates them all —The Sun kept stooping — stooping — low!
The Hills to meet him rose!
On his side, what Transaction!
On their side, what Repose!
Deeper and deeper grew the stain
Upon the window pane —
Thicker and thicker stood the feet
Until the Tyrian
Was crowded dense with Armies —...The Sun — just touched the Morning —
The Morning — Happy thing —
Supposed that He had come to dwell —
And Life would all be Spring!
She felt herself supremer —
A Raised — Ethereal Thing!
Henceforth — for Her — What Holiday!
Meanwhile — Her wheeling King —
Trailed — slow —...The Sunrise runs for Both —
The East — Her Purple Troth
Keeps with the Hill —
The Noon unwinds Her Blue
Till One Breadth cover Two —
Remotest — still —
Nor does the Night forget
A Lamp for Each — to set —
Wicks wide away —
The North — Her blazing Sign
...The sweetest Heresy received
That Man and Woman know —
Each Other's Convert —
Though the Faith accommodate but Two —
The Churches are so frequent —
The Ritual — so small —
The Grace so unavoidable —
To fail — is Infidel —The Symptom of the Gale —
The Second of Dismay —
Between its Rumor and its Face —
Is almost Revelry —
The Houses firmer root —
The Heavens cannot be found —
The Upper Surfaces of things
Take covert in the Ground —
The Mem'ry of the Sun
Not Any can recall —...Would my Delia know if I love, let her take
My last thought at night, and the first when I wake;
With my prayers and best wishes preferr'd for her sake.
Let her guess what I muse on, when rambling alone
I stride o'er the stubble each day with my gun,
Never ready to shoot till the covey is flown.
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