That this should feel the need of Death
The same as those that lived
Is such a Feat of Irony
As never was — achieved —
Not satisfied to ape the Great
In his simplicity
The small must die, as well as He —
Oh the Audacity —
-
-
The Soul should always stand ajar
That if the Heaven inquire
He will not be obliged to wait
Or shy of troubling Her
Depart, before the Host have slid
The Bolt unto the Door —
To search for the accomplished Guest,
Her Visitor, no more — -
The things we thought that we should do
We other things have done
But those peculiar industries
Have never been begun —
The Lands we thought that we should seek
When large enough to run
By Speculation ceded
To Speculation's Son —
The Heaven, in which we hoped to pause...We should not mind so small a flower —
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.
So spicy her Carnations nod —
So drunken, reel her Bees —
So silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees —
That whoso sees this little flower...
* * *
Why should I care for the men of thames
Or the cheating waves of charterd streams
Or shrink at the little blasts of fear
That the hireling blows into my ear
Tho born on the cheating banks of Thames
Tho his waters bathed my infant limbs
The Ohio shall wash...Why should we hurry — why indeed?
When every way we fly
We are molested equally
By immortality.
No respite from the inference
That this which is begun,
Though where its labors lie
A bland uncertainty
Besets the sight
This mighty night —