"Heaven" has different Signs — to me —
Sometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place —
And when again, at Dawn,
A mighty look runs round the World
And settles in the Hills —
An Awe if it should be like that
Upon the Ignorance steals —
The Orchard, when the...
* * *
The Hebrew Nation did not write it.
Avarice & Chastity did shite it. [2]
Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a "Diver" —
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home —
I — a Sparrow — build there
Sweet of twigs and twine
My perennial nest.
A VERY good fish, very good way of selling
A very bad thing, with a little bad spelling,
Make the name by the parson and godfather giv'n,
When a Christian was made of an angel from heav'n.
Her face was in a bed of hair,
Like flowers in a plot —
Her hand was whiter than the sperm
That feeds the sacred light.
Her tongue more tender than the tune
That totters in the leaves —
Who hears may be incredulous,
Who witnesses, believes.
Her final Summer was it —
And yet We guessed it not —
If tenderer industriousness
Pervaded Her, We thought
A further force of life
Developed from within —
When Death lit all the shortness up
It made the hurry plain —
We wondered at our blindness
When...
Her Grace is all she has —
And that, so least displays —
One Art to recognize, must be,
Another Art, to praise.
Her little Parasol to lift
And once to let it down
Her whole Responsibility —
To imitate be Mine.
A Summer further I must wear,
Content if Nature's Drawer
Present me from sepulchral Crease
As blemishless, as Her.
Her Losses make our Gains ashamed —
She bore Life's empty Pack
As gallantly as if the East
Were swinging at her Back.
Life's empty Pack is heaviest,
As every Porter knows —
In vain to punish Honey —
It only sweeter grows.
Her smile was shaped like other smiles —
The Dimples ran along —
And still it hurt you, as some Bird
Did hoist herself, to sing,
Then recollect a Ball, she got —
And hold upon the Twig,
Convulsive, while the Music broke —
Like Beads — among the Bog —