Who Court obtain within Himself
Sees every Man a King —
And Poverty of Monarchy
Is an interior thing —
No Man depose
Whom Fate Ordain —
And Who can add a Crown
To Him who doth continual
Conspire against His Own
-
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Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel —
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As 'twere a travelling Mill —
He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose —
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,
Till every spice is tasted —
And then...Within my reach !
I could have touched !
I might have chanced that way !
Soft sauntered through the village,
Sauntered as soft away !
So unsuspected violets
Within the fields lie low ;
Too late for striving...Within that little Hive
Such Hints of Honey lay
As made Reality a Dream
And Dreams, Reality —Within thy Grave!
Oh no, but on some other flight —
Thou only camest to mankind
To rend it with Good night —