It would hurt us—were we awake—
But since it is playing—kill us,
And we are playing—shriek—
What harm? Men die—externally—
It is a truth—of Blood—
But we—are dying in Drama—
And Drama—is never dead—
Cautious—We jar each other—
And either—open the eyes—
Lest the Phantasm—prove the Mistake—
And the livid Surprise
Cool us to Shafts of Granite—
With just an Age—and Name—
And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian—
It’s prudenter—to dream—
But He is mastered, now,I’m accustomed to Him grown,He hurts a little, though—I thought If I could only liveTill that first Shout got by—Not all Pianos in the WoodsHad power to mangle me—I dared not meet the Daffodils—For fear their Yellow GownWould pierce me with a fashionSo foreign to my own—I wished the Grass would…
When suddenly across the luneA wind with fingers goes.They perished in the seamless grass,–No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless listCan summon every face
The Grace so awkward for her sakeIts fond subjection wear –
At Bases of the Trees—The far Theatricals of DayExhibiting—to These—‘Twas Universe—that did applaud—While Chiefest—of the Crowd—Enabled by his Royal Dress—Myself distinguished God—
And that, so least displays—One Art to recognize, must be,Another Art, to praise.
What of—my Music!Since the sole ear I cared to charm—Passive—as Granite—laps My Music—Sobbing—will suit—as well as psalm!Would but the ‘Memnon’ of the Desert—Teach me the strainThat vanquished Him—When He—surrendered to the Sunrise—Maybe—that—would awaken—them!
