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Nor any coursers like a pageOf prancing poetry.This traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of toll;How frugal is the chariotThat bears a human soul!

Confer upon the Eye—Of Territory—Color—Circumference&mda sh;Decay—Its Amber RevelationExhilirate—Debase—O mnipotence’ inspectionOf Our inferior face—And when the solemn featuresConfirm—in Victory—We start—as if detectedIn Immortality—

As if the cloud that instant slitAnd let the fire through.It burned me in the night,It blistered in my dream;It sickened fresh upon my sightWith every morning’s beam.I thought that storm was brief,–The maddest, quickest by;But Nature lost the date of this,And left it in the sky.

Poverty—be justifyingFor so foul a thingPossibly—but We—would ratherFrom Our Garret goWhite—Unto the White Creator—Than invest—Our Snow—Thought belong to Him who gave it—Then—to Him Who bearIts Corporeal illustration—SellThe Royal Air—In the Parcel—Be the MerchantOf the Heavenly Grace—But reduce no Human SpiritTo Disgrace of Price—

But so adjust my daily NightThat it will come again.Not when we know, the Power accosts –The Garment of SurpriseWas all our timid Mother woreAt Home – in Paradise.

This season of the year,And when a soul perceives itselfTo be an Emperor.

That’s Summer—Such as These—the PearlsShe fetches—such as Me

They put me in the Closet —Because they liked me ‘still’ —Still! Could themself have peeped —And seen my Brain — go round —They might as wise have lodged a BirdFor Treason — in the Pound —Himself has but to willAnd easy as a StarAbolish his Captivity —And laugh — No more have I —

Denoted by the White—The Spangled Gowns, a lesser RankOf Victors—designate—All these—did conquer—But the ones who overcame most times—Wear nothing commoner than Snow—No Ornament, but Palms—Surrender—is a sort unknown—On this superior soil—Defeat—an outgrown Anguish—Remembered, as the MileOur panting Ankle barely passed—When Night devoured the Road—But we—stood whispering in the House—And all we said—was ‘Saved’!

And is the first, to rise—Her Night doth hardly recompenseThe Closing of Her eyes—She doth Her Purple Work—And putteth Her awayIn low Apartments in the Sod –As worthily as We.To imitate her lifeAs impotent would beAs make of Our imperfect Mints,The Julep—of the Bee—

Never deny Me—Never fly—Those same unvarying EyesTurn on Me—when I fail—or feign,Or take the Royal names in vain—Their far—slow—Violet Gaze—My Strong Madonnas—Cherish still—The Wayward Nun—beneath the Hill—Whose service—is to You—Her latest Worship—When the DayFades from the Firmament away—To lift Her Brows on You—

Forget she wore it at her HeartBecause she breathed againstWas Treason twixt?Deny! Did Rose her Bee—For Privilege of PlayOr Wile of ButterflyOr 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…