A woman—white—to be—
And wear—if God should count me fit—
Her blameless mystery—
A hallowed thing—to drop a life
Into the purple well—
Too plummetless—that it return—
Eternity—until—
< br>I pondered how the bliss would look—
And would it feel as big—
When I could take it in my hand—
As hovering—seen—through fog—
And then—the size of this ‘small’ life—
The Sages—call it small—
Swelled—like Horizons—in my vest—
And I sneered—softly—’small’!
When it begun–or if there wereA time when it was not–It has no Future–but itself–Its Infinite ContainIts Past–enlightened to perceiveNew Periods–of Pain.
In their Chapeaux of fire,Martial as she!Like her the Evenings stealPurple and CochinealAfter the Day!‘Departed’—both— ;they say!i.e. gathered away,Not found,Argues the Aster still—Reasons the DaffodilProfound!
Did I sing—too loud?But—I can say a little ‘Minor’Timid as a Bird!Wouldn’t the Angels try me—Just—once—more—Just—see—if I troubled them—But don’t—shut the door!Oh, if I—were the GentlemanIn the ‘White Robe’—And they—were the little Hand—that knocked—Could—I—forbid?
It cannot be again—When Fate hath taunted lastAnd thrown Her furthest Stone—The Maimed may pause, and breathe,And glance securely round—The Deer attracts no furtherThan it resists—the Hound—
As Wrecked Men—deem they sight the Land—At Centre of the Sea—And struggle slacker—but to proveAs hopelessly as I—How many the fictitious Shores—Before the Harbor be—
Unto the Daisy low—Transported with CompassionThat such a Doll should growWhere Tent by Tent—Her UniverseHung out its Flags of Snow—
