There’s Triumph in the Room
When that Old Imperator—Death—
By Faith
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A full, and perfect time—The Summer closed upon itselfIn Consummated Bloom—The Corn, her furthest kernel filledBefore the coming Flail—When These—leaned unto Perfectness—Through Haze of Burial—
The Road was lit with Moon and star –
Descried I – by the distant LightA Traveller on a Hill –To magic PerpendicularsAscending, though Terrene –Unknown his shimmering ultimate –But he indorsed the sheen –
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You are very far—But were no oneFarther than you—Do you think I’d stopFor a Firmament—Or a Cubit—or so?I could borrow a BonnetOf the Lark—And a Chamois’ Silver Boot—And a stirrup of an Antelope—And be with you—Tonight!But, Moon, and Star,Though you’re very far—There is one—farther than you—He—is more than a firmament—from Me—So I can never go!
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That everlasting—sings!Whose galleries—are Sunrise—Whose Opera—the Springs—Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spinOf mellow—murmuring thread—Whose Beryl Egg, what Schoolboys huntIn ‘Recess’—Overhead!
My Garden—like the Beach—
That’s Summer—Such as These—the PearlsShe fetches—such as Me
Nature the gentlest mother is,
The feeblest of the waywardest.Her admonition mildIn forest and the hillBy traveller be heard,Restraining rampant squirrelOr too impetuous bird.How fair her conversationA summer afternoon,Her household her assembly;And when the sun go down,Her voice among the aislesIncite the timid prayerOf the minutest cricket,The most unworthy flower.When all the children sleep,She turns as long awayAs will suffice…