57

The Absence of an Eye—Except its Mind accompanyAbridge SocietyAs slightly as the Routes of Stars—Ourselves—asleep below—We know that their superior EyesInclude Us—as they go—

And Roses in the Seed—A Summer briefer than the firstBut tenderer indeedAs should a Face supposed the Grave’sEmerge a single NoonIn the Vermilion that it woreAffect us, and return—Two Seasons, it is said, exist—The Summer of the Just,And this of Ours, diversifiedWith Prospect, and with Frost—May not our Second with its FirstSo infinite compareThat We…

And see the People—going by—I—should die of the Oddity—But then—I’m not so staid—as He—He keeps His Secrets safely—very—Were He to tell—extremely sorryThis Bashful Globe of Ours would be—So dainty of Publicity—

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.

Than Ordinary Breath—Lit with a finer Phosphor—Requiring in the Quench—A Power of Renowned Cold,The Climate of the GraveA Temperature just adequateSo Anthracite, to live—For some—an Ampler Zero—A Frost more needle keenIs necessary, to reduceThe Ethiop within.Others—extinguish easier—A Gnat’s minutest FanSufficient to obliterateA Tract of Citizen—Whose Peat lift—amply vivid—Ignores the solemn NewsThat Popocatapel exists—Or Etna’s Scarlets,…

There can no Outer WineSo royally intoxicateAs that diviner BrandThe Soul achieves—Herself—To drink—or set awayFor Visitor—Or Sacrament—‘Tis not of HolidayTo stimulate a ManWho hath the Ample RhineWithin his Closet—Best you canExhale in offering.