And Fear—is like the One
Between the instant of a Wreck
And when the Wreck has been—
The Mind is smooth—no Motion—
Contented as the Eye
Upon the Forehead of a Bust—
That knows—it cannot see—
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She each year leads her daisies back,Recording briefly, ‘Lost.’But when the south wind stirs the poolsAnd struggles in the lanes,Her heart misgives her for her vow,And she pours soft refrainsInto the lap of adamant,And spices, and the dew,That stiffens quietly to quartzUpon her amber shoe.
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The lawful Heir—for Thee—
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On Seas of Daffodil—Fantastic Sailors—mingle—And then—the Wharf is still!
A door just opened on a street–
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Upon a single Wheel—Whose spokes a dizzy Music makeAs ’twere a travelling Mill—He never stops, but slackensAbove the Ripest Rose—Partakes without alightingAnd praises as he goes,Till every spice is tasted—And then his Fairy GigReels in remoter atmospheres—And I rejoin my Dog,And He and I, perplex usIf positive, ’twere we—Or bore the Garden in the BrainThis…
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In convalescent Mind,His scrutiny of ChancesBy blessed Health obscured—As One rewalks a PrecipiceAnd whittles at the TwigThat held Him from PerditionSown sidewise in the CragA Custom of the SoulFar after sufferingIdentity to questionFor evidence’t has been—