Forget she wore it at her Heart
Because she breathed against
Was Treason twixt?
Deny! Did Rose her Bee—
For Privilege of Play
Or Wile of Butterfly
Or Opportunity—Her Lord away?
The lady with the Amulet—will face—
The Bee—in Mausoleum laid—
Discard his Bride—
But longer than the little Rill—
That cooled the Forehead of the Hill—
While Other—went the Sea to fill—
And Other—went to turn the Mill—
I’ll do thy Will—
The second, loss,Third, Expedition forThe ‘Golden Fleece’Fourth, no Discovery—Fifth, no Crew—Finally, no Golden Fleece—Jason—sham—too.
And walk steady, away,Requires Energy—possibly Agony—‘Tis the Scarlet wayTrodden with straight renunciationBy the Son of God—Later, his faint ConfederatesJustify the Road—Flavors of that old Crucifixion—Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed—Strong Clusters, from Barabbas’ Tomb—Sacrament, Saints partook before us—Patent, every drop,With the Brand of the Gentile DrinkerWho indorsed the Cup—
Distills amazing senseFrom ordinary Meanings—And Attar so immenseFrom the familiar speciesThat perished by the Door—We wonder it was not OurselvesArrested it—before—Of Pictures, the Discloser—The Poet—it is He—Entitles Us—by Contrast—To ceaseless Poverty—Of portion—so unconscious—The Robbing—could not harm—Himself—to Him—a Fortune—Exterior—to Time—
And did God Care?He cared as much as on the AirA Bird—had stamped her foot—And cried ‘Give Me’—My Reason—Life—I had not had—but for Yourself—‘Twere better CharityTo leave me in the Atom’s Tomb—Merry, and Nought, and gay, and numb—Than this smart Misery.
And Fear—is like the OneBetween the instant of a WreckAnd when the Wreck has been—The Mind is smooth—no Motion—Contented as the EyeUpon the Forehead of a Bust—That knows—it cannot see—
The feeblest or the waywardest,Her admonition mildIn forest and the hillBy traveller is heard,Restraining rampant squirrelOr too impetuous bird.How fair her conversation,A summer afternoon,–Her household, her assembly;And when the sun goes downHer voice among the aislesIncites the timid prayerOf the minutest cricket,The most unworthy flower.When all the children sleepShe turns as long awayAs will suffice…
