And is the first, to rise—
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes—
She doth Her Purple Work—
And putteth Her away
In low Apartments in the Sod –
As worthily as We.
To imitate her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep—of the Bee—
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On Seas of Daffodil—Fantastic Sailors—mingle—And then—the Wharf is still!
777
And would as soon surmiseAs in its Grave go plumbingTo ascertain the size—The Loneliness whose worst alarmIs lest itself should see—And perish from before itselfFor just a scrutiny—The Horror not to be surveyed—But skirted in the Dark—With Consciousness suspended—And Being under Lock—I fear me this—is Loneliness—The Maker of the soulIts Caverns and its CorridorsIlluminate—or seal—
997
A fundamental pauseDilapidation’s processesAre organized Decays.‘Tis first a Cobweb on the SoulA Cuticle of DustA Borer in the AxisAn Elemental Rust—Ruin is formal—Devil’s workConsecutive and slow—Fail in an instant, no man didSlipping—is Crash’s law.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
A jar across the flowers goes,Their velvet masonryWithstands until the sweet assaultTheir chivalry consumes,While he, victorious, tilts awayTo vanquish other blooms.His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast, a single onyxWith chrysoprase, inlaid.His labor is a chant,His idleness a tune;Oh, for a bee’s experienceOf clovers and of noon!
334
Are not fair as this—Syllables of Velvet—Sentences of Plush,Depths of Ruby, undrained,Hid, Lip, for Thee—Play it were a Humming Bird—And just sipped—me—
71
A hurry in the breath—An ecstasy of partingDenominated ‘Death’—An anguish at the mentionWhich when to patience grown,I’ve known permission givenTo rejoin its own.