Sonnets

On The DEATH OF A METAPHYSICIAN UNHAPPY dreamer, who outwinged in flight The pleasant region of the things I love, And soared beyond the sunshine, and above The golden cornfields and the dear and bright Warmth of the hearth,—blasphemer of delight, Was your proud bosom not at peace with Jove, That you sought, thankless for his guarded grove, The empty horror of abysmal night? Ah, the thin air is cold above the moon! I stood and saw you fall, befooled in death, As, in your numbed spirit’s fatal swoon, You cried you were a god, or were to be; I heard with feeble moan your boastful breath Bubble from depths of the Icarian sea. ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY HOLD high the woof, dear friends, that we may see The cunning mixture of its colors rare. Nothing in nature purposely is fair,— Her mingled beauties never quite agree; But here all vivid dyes that garish be, To that tint mellowed which the sense will bear, Glow, and not wound the eye that, resting there, Lingers to feed its gentle ecstasy. Crimson and purple and all hues of wine, Saffron and russet, brown and sober green Are rich the shadowy depths of blue between; While silver threads with golden intertwine, To catch the glimmer of a fickle sheen,— All the long labor of some captive queen.