Of Death I try to think like this —
The Well in which they lay us
Is but the Likeness of the Brook
That menaced not to slay us,
But to invite by that Dismay
Which is the Zest of sweetness
To the same Flower Hesperian,
Decoying but to greet us —
I do remember when a Child...
Of Glory not a Beam is left
But her Eternal House —
The Asterisk is for the Dead,
The Living, for the Stars —
Of God we ask one favor,
That we may be forgiven —
For what, he is presumed to know —
The Crime, from us, is hidden —
Immured the whole of Life
Within a magic Prison
We reprimand the Happiness
That too competes with Heaven.
WHAT is good-nature? Gen'rous Richmond, tell;
He can declare it best, who best can feel.
Is it a foolish weakness in the breast,
As some who know, or have it not, contest?
Or is it rather not the mighty whole,
Full composition of a virtuous soul?
Is it not virtue's self? A flower so fine,...
* * *
Of H s birth this was the happy lot
His Mother on his Father him begot
William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say (to say the truth)
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit,
(So blest a thing is impudence,)
While others could not bear it.
...
Of Life to own —
From Life to draw —
But never tough the reservoir —
“Of Miidera
The gate I would knock at—
The moon of to-day.”
Of Nature I shall have enough
When I have entered these
Entitled to a Bumble bee's
Familiarities.
Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times —
When Dimness — looks the Oddity —
Distinctness — easy — seems —
The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms —
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes —
In just the Jacket...