523

That—got through!It’s early—yet—for ‘Spring’!There’s that long town of White—to cross—Before the Blackbirds sing!It can’t be ‘Dying’!It’s too Rouge—The Dead shall go in White—So Sunset shuts my question downWith Cuffs of Chrysolite!

Spices? Buy here!Ill! We have berries, for the parching!Weary! Furloughs of down!Perplexed! Estates of violet trouble ne’er looked on!Captive! We bring reprieve of roses!Fainting! Flasks of air!Even for Death, a fairy medicine.But, which is it, sir?

A Minor thing—it sounds—And yet, unto the single DoeAttempted of the Hounds‘Tis Terror as consummateAs Legions of AlarmDid leap, full flanked, upon the Host—‘Tis Units—make the Swarm—A Small Leech—on the Vitals—The sliver, in the Lung—The Bung out—of an Artery—Are scarce accounted—Harms—Yet might—by relationTo that Repealless thing—A Being—impotent to end—When once it has begun—

Gain—Satiety—But Satiety—ConvictionOf NecessityOf an Austere trait in Pleasure—Good, without alarmIs a too established Fortune—Danger—deepens Sum—

But when the soul is in pain—The hearing him put his playthings upMakes work difficult—then—It is simple, to ache in the Bone, or the Rind—But Gimlets—among the nerve—Mangle daintier—terribler—Like a Panter in the Glove—

Out of sound—Out of sight—‘Happy’? Which is wiser—You, or the Wind?‘Conscious’? Won’t you ask that—Of the low Ground?‘Homesick’? Many met it—Even through them—ThisCannot testify—Themself—as dumb—

By this—was William KiddPersuaded of the Buried Gold—As One had testified—Through this—the old Philosopher—His Talismanic StoneDiscernéd—still withholdenTo effort undivine—‘Twas this—allured Columbus—When Genoa—withdrewBefore an ApparitionBaptized America—The Same—afflicted Thomas—When Deity assured‘Twas better—the perceiving not—Provided it believed—

Is but a symbol of the Place—And when again, at Dawn,A mighty look runs round the WorldAnd settles in the Hills—An Awe if it should be like thatUpon the Ignorance steals—The Orchard, when the Sun is on—The Triumph of the BirdsWhen they together Victory make—Some Carnivals of Clouds—The Rapture of a finished Day—Returning to the…

Bestirs her puzzled wingsOnce more her mistress, on the deepHer troubled question flings—Thrice to the floating casementThe Patriarch’s bird returned,Courage! My brave Columba!There may yet be Land!

Myself—a MillionaireIn little Wealths, as Girls could boastTill broad as Buenos Ayre—You drifted your Dominions—A Different Peru—And I esteemed All PovertyFor Life’s Estate with you—Of Mines, I little know—myself—But just the names, of Gems—The Colors of the Commonest—And scarce of Diadems—So much, that did I meet the Queen—Her Glory I should know—But this, must be…

And No Man—is the OneOf all the Battles prevalent—By far the Greater One—No News of it is had abroad—Its Bodiless CampaignEstablishes, and terminates—Invisible—Unknown&mdas h;Nor History—record it—As Legions of a NightThe Sunrise scatters—These endure—Enact—and terminate—

And stop to feed itself at tanks;And then, prodigious, stepAround a pile of mountains,And, supercilious, peerIn shanties by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pareTo fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down the hillAnd neigh like Boanerges;Then, punctual as a star,Stop – docile and omnipotent –At…