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Frequently are brown.Frequently the hills undressBehind my native town.Oft a head is crestedI was wont to see—And as oft a crannyWhere it used to be—And the Earth— they tell me—On its Axis turned!Wonderful Rotation!By but twelve performed!

The name They dropped upon my faceWith water, in the country churchIs finished using, now,And They can put it with my Dolls,My childhood, and the string of spools,I’ve finished threading—too—Baptized, before, without the choice,But this time, consciously, of Grace—Unto supremest name—Called to my Full—The Crescent dropped—Existence’s whole Arc, filled up,With one small Diadem.My second Rank—too…

She each year leads her daisies back,Recording briefly, ‘Lost.’But when the south wind stirs the poolsAnd struggles in the lanes,Her heart misgives her for her vow,And she pours soft refrainsInto the lap of adamant,And spices, and the dew,That stiffens quietly to quartzUpon her amber shoe.

No Power can untieTo stretch a little furtherA Skein of Misery—The Earth lays back these tired livesIn her mysterious Drawers—Too tenderly, that any doubtAn ultimate Repose—The manner of the Children—Who weary of the Day—Themself—the noisy PlaythingThey cannot put away—

‘Twould supersede the Heaven—A few—and they by Risk—procure—So this Sort—are not given—Except as stimulants—inCases of Despair—Or Stupor—The Reserve—These Heavenly Moments are—A Grant of the Divine—That Certain as it Comes—Withdraws—and leaves the dazzled SoulIn her unfurnished Rooms

That seeketh his felicityToo often at her door—But teach the Footman from Vevay—Mistress is ‘not at home’—to say—To people—any more!