Noons like these—she rose—
Fluttering first—then firmer
To her fair repose.
Never did she lisp it—
It was not for me—
She—was mute from transport—
I—from agony—
Till—the evening nearing
One the curtains drew—
Quick! A Sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
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After great pain, a formal feeling comes–
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before?The Feet, mechanical, go round–Of Ground, or Air, or Ought–A Wooden wayRegardless grown,A Quartz contentment, like a stone–This is the Hour of Lead–Remembered, if outlived,As Freezing persons recollect the Snow–First–Chill–then Stupor–then the letting go–
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I’m not ashamed of thatChrist—stooped until He touched the Grave—Do those at SacramentCommemorative DishonorOr love annealed of loveUntil it bend as low as DeathRedignified, above?
It is an honorable thought,
As one encountered gentlefolkUpon a daily street,That we’ve immortal place,Though pyramids decay,And kingdoms, like the orchard,Flit russetly away.
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The Pearl—the Just—Our Thought.Most shun the Public AirLegitimate, and Rare—The Capsule of the WindThe Capsule of the MindExhibit here, as doth a Burr—Germ’s Germ be where?
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‘Tis little I can do—And yet the largest Woman’s HeartCould hold an Arrow—too—And so, instructed by my own,I tenderer, turn Me to.
The Spider as an Artist
Though his surpassing MeritIs freely certifiedBy every Broom and BridgetThroughout a Christian Land –Neglected Son of GeniusI take thee by the Hand –