Traced azure on her hand—
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.
Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it—
And with the Saints sat down.
No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet—
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street—
But Crowns instead, and Courtiers—
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy—immortal face
Of whom we’re whispering here?
Whose forces Spheric windUntil the Velvet productDrop spicy to the ground—A homelier maturing—A process in the Bur—That teeth of Frosts alone discloseIn far October Air.
So I keep bringing These—Just as the Night keeps fetching StarsTo our familiar eyes—Maybe, we shouldn’t mind them—Unless they didn’t come—Then—maybe, it would puzzle usTo find our way Home—
Gamblers—recollecting whichToss their dice again!
Lit with a ruby,Lathed with down.Stiller than the fieldsAt the full dew,Beautiful as picturesNo man drew.People like the moth,Of mechlin, frames,Duties of gossamer,And eider names.Almost contentedI could be‘Mong such uniqueSociety.
Had scarcely deigned to lie—When, stirring, for Belief’s delight,My Bride had slipped away—If ’twas a Dream—made solid—justThe Heaven to confirm—Or if Myself were dreamed of Her—The power to presume—With Him remain—who unto Me—Gave—even as to All—A Fiction superseding Faith—By so much—as ’twas real—
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.
