This is a Blossom of the Brain —
A small — italic Seed
Lodged by Design or Happening
The Spirit fructified —
Shy as the Wind of his Chambers
Swift as a Freshet's Tongue
So of the Flower of the Soul
Its process is unknown.
When it is found, a few rejoice
The...
This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me —
The simple News that Nature told —
With tender Majesty
Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see —
For love of Her — Sweet — countrymen —
Judge tenderly — of Me
This Me — that walks and works — must die,
Some fair or stormy Day,
Adversity if it may be
Or wild prosperity
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my mind was born
Not even a Prognostic's push
Can make a Dent thereon —
This slow Day moved along —
I heard its axles go
As if they could not hoist themselves
They hated motion so —
I told my soul to come —
It was no use to wait —
We went and played and came again
And it was out of sight —
This was a Poet — It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings —
And Attar so immense
From the familiar species
That perished by the Door —
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it — before —
Of Pictures, the Discloser —
The Poet — it is He —...
This was in the White of the Year —
That — was in the Green —
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As Daisies now to be seen —
Looking back is best that is left
Or if it be — before —
Retrospection is Prospect's half,
Sometimes, almost more.
This — is the land — the Sunset washes —
These — are the Banks of the Yellow Sea —
Where it rose — or whither it rushes —
These — are the Western Mystery!
Night after Night
Her purple traffic
Strews the landing with Opal Bales —
Merchantmen — poise upon Horizons —
Dip — and...
Those fair — fictitious People —
The Women — plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime —
The Men of Ivory —
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas —
Who stay upon the Wall
In Everlasting Keepsake —
Can Anybody tell?
We trust — in places perfecter —
Inheriting...
The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong,
After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along:
The "ringer" that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before,
And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score,
The tarboy, the cook and the skushy, the sweeper that swept the board,...
Those who have been in the Grave the longest —
Those who begin Today —
Equally perish from our Practise —
Death is the other way —
Foot of the Bold did least attempt it —
It — is the White Exploit —
Once to achieve, annuls the power
Once to communicate —