203

Were Pages where to readPathetic Histories—althoughHimself had not complained.Biography to All who passedOf Unobtrusive PainExcept for the italic FaceEndured, unhelped—unknown.

The stars about my head I felt,About my feet the sea.I knew not but the nextWould be my final inch,–This gave me that precarious gaitSome call experience.

Can the ecstasy define—Half a transport—half a trouble—With which flowers humble men:Anybody find the fountainFrom which floods so contra flow—I will give him all the DaisiesWhich upon the hillside blow.Too much pathos in their facesFor a simple breast like mine—Butterflies from St. DomingoCruising round the purple line—Have a system of aesthetics—Far superior to mine.

Let every Bondage be,Thou sweetest of the Universe,Like that which ravished thee!

Would it try mine—Worn—now—and dull—sweet,Writing much to thee.If it had no word,Would it make the Daisy,Most as big as I was,When it plucked me?

Embarrassed—not afraid—Encounter in my gardenAn unexpected Maid.She beckons, and the woods start—She nods, and all begin—Surely, such a countryI was never in!