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Poets—ended—Silver—perished—w ith her Tongue—Not on Record—bubbled other,Flute—or Woman—So divine—Not unto its Summer—MorningRobin—uttered Half the Tune—Gushed too free for the Adoring—From the Anglo-Florentine—Late—the Praise—‘Tis dull—conferringOn the Head too High to Crown—Diadem—or Ducal Showing—Be its Grave—sufficient sign—Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—Suffocate—with easy woe—What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—Put Her down—in Italy?

The frost beheads it at its play,In accidental power.The blond assassin passes on.The sun proceeds unmoved,To measure off another day,For an approving God.

And went against the World—‘Twas not so much as David—had—But I—was twice as bold—I aimed by Pebble—but MyselfWas all the one that fell—Was it Goliath—was too large—Or was myself—too small?

Without DesignOr Order, or Apparent Action—Maintain—The Sun—upon a Morning meets them—The Wind—No nearer Neighbor—have they—But God—The Acre gives them—Place—They—Him—Attention of Passer by—Of Shadow, or of Squirrel, haply—Or Boy—What Deed is Theirs unto the General Nature—What PlanThey severally—retard—or further—Unknown—

And wrecks in Peace a Purple Tar,The Son of Ecstasy –

Appealing to Myself,In moment of prosperity—Inadequate—were Life—‘Thou hast not Me, nor Me’—it said,In Moment of Reverse—‘And yet Thou art industrious—No need—hadst Thou—of us’?My need—was all I had—I said—The need did not reduce—Because the food—exterminate—The hunger—does not cease—But diligence—is sharper—Proportioned to the Chance—To feed upon the Retrograde—Enfeebles—the Advance—