It feels a shame to be Alive —
When Men so brave — are dead —
One envies the Distinguished Dust —
Permitted — such a Head —
The Stone — that tells defending Whom
This Spartan put away
What little of Him we — possessed
In Pawn for Liberty —
The price is great —...
It is a lonesome Glee —
Yet sanctifies the Mind —
With fair association —
Afar upon the Wind
A Bird to overhear
Delight without a Cause —
Arrestless as invisible —
A matter of the Skies.
It is an honorable Thought
And make One lift One's Hat
As One met sudden Gentlefolk
Upon a daily Street
That We've immortal Place
Though Pyramids decay
And Kingdoms, like the Orchard
Flit Russetly away
It is easy to work when the soul is at play —
But when the soul is in pain —
The hearing him put his playthings up
Makes work difficult — then —
It is simple, to ache in the Bone, or the Rind —
But Gimlets — among the nerve —
Mangle daintier — terribler —
Like a Panter in the Glove —...
It knew no lapse, nor Diminuation —
But large — serene —
Burned on — until through Dissolution —
It failed from Men —
I could not deem these Planetary forces
Annulled —
But suffered an Exchange of Territory —
Or World —
It knew no Medicine —
It was not Sickness — then —
Nor any need of Surgery —
And therefore — 'twas not Pain —
It moved away the Cheeks —
A Dimple at a time —
And left the Profile — plainer —
And in the place of Bloom
It left the little Tint
That never had a...
It makes no difference abroad —
The Seasons — fit — the same —
The Mornings blossom into Noons —
And split their Pods of Flame —
Wild flowers — kindle in the Woods —
The Brooks slam — all the Day —
No Black bird bates his Banjo —
For passing Calvary —
Auto da Fe — and...
It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness —
I'm so accustomed to my Fate —
Perhaps the Other — Peace —
Would interrupt the Dark —
And crowd the little Room —
Too scant — by Cubits — to contain
The Sacrament — of Him —
I am not used to Hope —
It might...
It rises — passes — on our South
Inscribes a simple Noon —
Cajoles a Moment with the Spires
And infinite is gone —
It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —
It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain —
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again —
It reaches to the Fence —
It wraps it Rail...