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That every time I wake—Between my Curtain and the WallUpon an ample Crack—Like a Venetian—waiting—Accosts my open eye—Is just a Bough of Apples—Held slanting, in the Sky—The Pattern of a Chimney—The Forehead of a Hill—Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger—But that’s—Occasional—The Seasons—shift—my Picture—Upon my Emerald Bough,I wake—to find no—Emeralds—Then—Diamonds&m dash;which the SnowFrom Polar Caskets—fetched me—The Chimney—and the Hill—And…

Go above your Nerve—He can lean against the Grave,If he fear to swerve—That’s a steady posture—Never any bendHeld of those Brass arms—Best Giant made—If your Soul seesaw—Lift the Flesh door—The Poltroon wants Oxygen—Nothing more—

A Presence of Departed Acts –At window – and at Door –Its Past – set down before the SoulAnd lighted with a Match –Perusal – to facilitate –And help Belief to stretch –Remorse is cureless – the DiseaseNot even God – can heal –For ’tis His institution – andThe Adequate of Hell –

Every time—for Two—So that the Sum be never hinderedThrough Decay of You—Say if I erred? Accuse my Farthings—Blame the little HandHappy it be for You—a Beggar’s—Seeking More—to spend—Just to be Rich—to waste my GuineasOn so Best a Heart—Just to be Poor—for Barefoot VisionYou—Sweet—Shut me out—

Accredited—Today—Will in a second Future—Cease to identify—This Mind, and its measure—A too minute AreaFor its enlarged inspection’sComparison—appear—This World, and its speciesA too concluded showFor its absorbed Attention’sRemotest scrutiny—

Run round and round a Room—In search of Something—as it seemed—Then Cloudier become—And then—obscure with Fog—And then—be soldered downWithout disclosing what it be‘Twere blessed to have seen—