Is there such a thing as ‘Day’?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?
Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?
Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called ‘Morning’ lies!
As different from Joy—As Frost is different from Dew—Like element—are they—Yet one—rejoices Flowers—And one—the Flowers abhor—The finest Honey—curdled—Is worthless—to the Bee—
And a Green Chill upon the HeatSo ominous did passWe barred the Windows and the DoorsAs from an Emerald Ghost –The Doom’s electric MoccasinThe very instant passed –On a strange Mob of panting TreesAnd Fences fled awayAnd Rivers where the Houses ranThose looked that lived – that Day –The Bell within the steeple wildThe flying…
And Anguish—absolute—And many hurt,But, what of that?I reason, we could die—The best VitalityCannot excel Decay,But, what of that?I reason, that in Heaven—Somehow, it will be even—Some new Equation, given—But, what of that?
If tenderer industriousnessPervaded her, we thoughtA further force of lifeDeveloped from within,–When Death lit all the shortness up,And made the hurry plain.We wondered at our blindness,–When nothing was to seeBut her Carrara guide-post,–At our stupidityWhen, duller than our dulness,The busy darling lay,So busy was she, finishing,So leisurely were we!
Had swept the Winter Street –The House was hookedThe Sun sent outFaint Deputies of Heat –Where rode the BirdThe Silence tiedHis ample – plodding SteedThe Apple in the Cellar snugWas all the one that played.
I fear a Silent Man—Haranguer—I can overtake—Or Babbler—entertain—But He who weigheth—While the Rest—Expend their furthest pound—Of this Man—I am wary—I fear that He is Grand—
