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And I’m accustomed to him grown,–He hurts a little, though.I thought if I could only liveTill that first shout got by,Not all pianos in the woodsHad power to mangle me.I dared not meet the daffodils,For fear their yellow gownWould pierce me with a fashionSo foreign to my own.I wished the grass would hurry,So when ‘t…

When suddenly across the luneA wind with fingers goes.They perished in the seamless grass,–No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless listCan summon every face

Because there isn’t Room—Besides—it isn’t even—it slantsAnd People come—And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we move as farAs Enemies—away—Just looking round to see how farIt is—Occasionally—

The Positive—of Bells—When Cogs—stop—that’s Circumference—The Ultimate—of Wheels.

Tell him I only said the syntax,And left the verb and the pronoun out.Tell him just how the fingers hurriedThen how they waded, slow, slow, slow-And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,So you could see what moved them so.‘Tell him it wasn’t a practised writer,You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;You…

It has a song—It has a sting—Ah, too, it has a wing.