Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe
That men, must slake in Wilderness—
And in the Desert—cloy—
An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald—
Lapland’s—necessity—
The Hemlock’s nature thrives—on cold—
The Gnash of Northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
His best Norwegian Wines—
To satin Races—he is nought—
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
Indemnity for LonelinessThat such a Bliss has been.
Upon a common summer’s morn—A flask of Dew—A Bee or two—A Breeze—a caper in the trees—And I’m a Rose!
Can’t put the puppet bowingThat just now dangled still.An awe came on the trinket!The figures hunched with pain,Then quivered out of decimalsInto degreeless noon.It will not stir for doctors,This pendulum of snow;The shopman importunes it,While cool, concernless NoNods from the gilded pointers,Nods from seconds slim,Decades of arrogance betweenThe dial life and him.
One must to thine ArtilleryHave left exposed a Friend—Than thine old Arrow is a ShotDelivered straighter to the HeartThe leaving Love behind.Not for itself, the Dust is shy,But, enemy, Beloved beThy Batteries divorce.Fight sternly in a Dying eyeTwo Armies, Love and CertaintyAnd Love and the Reverse.
When Summertime is done—Seems Summer’s RecollectionAnd the Affairs of JuneAs infinite TraditionAs Cinderella’s Bays—Or Little John—of Lincoln Green—Or Blue Beard’s Galleries—Her Bees have a fictitious Hum—Her Blossoms, like a Dream—Elate us—till we almost weep—So plausible—they seem—Her Memories like Strains—Review—When Orchestra is dumb—The Violin in Baize replaced—And Ear—and Heaven—numb—
Loosed the Moon her silver hatFrom her lustral Face –All of Evening softly litAs an Astral Hall –Father, I observed to Heaven,You are punctual.
