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The Women—plucked awayFrom our familiar Lifetime—The Men of Ivory—Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—Who stay upon the WallIn Everlasting Keepsake—Can Anybody tell?We trust—in places perfecter—Inheriting DelightBeyond our faint Conjecture—Our dizzy Estimate—Remembering ourselves, we trust—Yet Blesseder—than We—Through Knowing—where We only hope—Receiving—where we—pray—Of Expectation—also—Anticipating usWith transport, that would be a painExcept for Holiness—Esteeming us—as Exile—Themself—admitted Home—Through easy…

These—are the Banks of the Yellow Sea—Where it rose—or whither it rushes—These—are the Western Mystery!Night after NightHer purple trafficStrews the landing with Opal Bales—Merchantmen—poise upon Horizons—Dip—and vanish like Orioles!

But never deemed the dripping prizeAwaited their—low Brows—Or Bees—that thought the Summer’s nameSome rumor of Delirium,No Summer—could—for Them—Or Arctic Creatures, dimly stirred—By Tropic Hint—some Travelled BirdImported to the Wood—Or Wind’s bright signal to the Ear—Making that homely, and severe,Contented, known, before—The Heaven—unexpected come,To Lives that thought the WorshippingA too presumptuous Psalm—

First—Poets—Then the Sun—Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God—And then—the List is done—But, looking back—the First so seemsTo Comprehend the Whole—The Others look a needless Show—So I write—Poets—All—Their Summer—lasts a Solid Year—They can afford a SunThe East—would deem extravagant—And if the Further Heaven—Be Beautiful as they prepareFor Those who worship Them—It is too difficult a Grace—To…

Because that Junior Foliage is disrespectful nowTo venerable BirdsWhose Corporation CoatWould decorate Oblivion’sRemotest Consulate.

The palate of the hate departs;If any would avenge,Let him be quick, the viand flits,It is a faded meat.Anger as soon as fed is dead;‘T is starving makes it fat.