And walk steady, away,
Requires Energy—possibly Agony—
‘Tis the Scarlet way
Trodden with straight renunciation
By the Son of God—
Later, his faint Confederates
Justify the Road—
Flavors of that old Crucifixion—
Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed—
Strong Clusters, from Barabbas’ Tomb—
Sacrament, Saints partook before us—
Patent, every drop,
With the Brand of the Gentile Drinker
Who indorsed the Cup—
As if the cloud that instant slitAnd let the fire through.It burned me in the night,It blistered in my dream;It sickened fresh upon my sightWith every morning’s beam.I thought that storm was brief,–The maddest, quickest by;But Nature lost the date of this,And left it in the sky.
Tabernacle or Tomb—Or Dome of Worm—Or Porch of Gnome—Or some Elf’s Catacomb?
Hueless to me until thou comeAs, till the BeeBlossoms stand negative,Touched to ConditionsBy a Hum.
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.
Themselves—go out—The Wicks they stimulate—If vital LightInhere as do the Suns—Each Age a LensDisseminating theirCircumference—
No other—was denied—I offered Being—for it—The Mighty Merchant sneered—Brazil? He twirled a Button—Without a glance my way—‘But—Madam—is there nothing else—That We can show—Today?’
