So sick—to guess—
So strong—to know—
So brave—upon its little Bed
To tell the very last They said
Unto Itself—and smile—And shake—
For that dear—distant—dangerous—Sake—
But—the Instead—the Pinching fear
That Something—it did do—or dare—
Offend the Vision—and it flee—
And They no more remember me—
Nor ever turn to tell me why—
Oh, Master, This is Misery—
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727
Though She forget the name I bear—The fashion of the Gown I wear—The very Color of My Hair—So like the Meadows—now—I dared to show a Tress of TheirsIf haply—She might not despiseA Buttercup’s Array—I know the Whole—obscures the Part—The fraction—that appeased the HeartTill Number’s Empery—Remembered—as the Millner’s flowerWhen Summer’s Everlasting Dower—Confronts the dazzled Bee.
505
I’d rather be the OneIts bright impossibilityTo dwell—delicious—on—And wonder how the fingers feelWhose rare—celestial—stir—Evokes so sweet a Torment—Such sumptuous—Despair—I would not talk, like Cornets—I’d rather be the OneRaised softly to the Ceilings—And out, and easy on—Through Villages of Ether—Myself endued BalloonBy but a lip of Metal—The pier to my Pontoon—Nor would I be a Poet—It’s…
843
Was steady as the SunAnd every Night, it numbered moreThan the preceding OneAll Days, I did not earn the sameBut my perceiveless GainInferred the less by Growing thanThe Sum that it had grown.
399
That Wagon never reached—No Dead, were ever carried down—No Peddler’s Cart—approached—Whose Chimney never smoked—Whose Windows—Night and Morn—Caught Sunrise first—and Sunset—last—Then—held an Empty Pane—Whose fate—Conjecture knew—No other neighbor—did—And what it was—we never lisped—Because He—never told—
Her final summer was it,
If tenderer industriousnessPervaded her, we thoughtA further force of lifeDeveloped from within,–When Death lit all the shortness up,And made the hurry plain.We wondered at our blindness,–When nothing was to seeBut her Carrara guide-post,–At our stupidityWhen, duller than our dulness,The busy darling lay,So busy was she, finishing,So leisurely were we!
925
Lightning—lets awayPower to perceive His ProcessWith Vitality.Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—Stone of stolid Boy—Nor a Sportsman’s Peradventure—Who mine Enemy?Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—All my Mansion torn—Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—Furthest shining—done—Yet was not the foe—of any—Not the smallest BirdIn the nearest Orchard dwellingBe of Me—afraid.Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.Often as I dieIts beloved RecognitionHolds a Sun…