Our Lord—’so loved’—it saith—
What Largest Lover—hath
Another—doth—
If smaller Patience—be—
Through less Infinity—
If Bravo, sometimes swerve—
Through fainter Nerve—
Accept its Most—
And overlook—the Dust—
Last—Least—
The Cross’—Request—
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When Act and Will are doneBut what Our Lord infers We wouldHad We diviner been—
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A Mountain—in my mind—More Mountains—then a Sea—More Seas—And thenA Desert—find—And My Horizon blocksWith steady—drifting—GrainsOf unconjectured quantity—As Asiatic Rains—Nor this—defeat my Pace—It hinder from the WestBut as an Enemy’s SaluteOne hurrying to Rest—What merit had the Goal—Except there interveneFaint Doubt—and far Competitor—To jeopardize the Gain?At last—the Grace in sight—I shout unto my feet—I offer them the…
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With Ropes of SandTo keep it from effacingThe Track called Land.
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That—got through!It’s early—yet—for ‘Spring’!There’s that long town of White—to cross—Before the Blackbirds sing!It can’t be ‘Dying’!It’s too Rouge—The Dead shall go in White—So Sunset shuts my question downWith Cuffs of Chrysolite!
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Of a Withdrawn Delight—Affords a Bliss like Murder—Omnipotent—Acute—We will not drop the Dirk—Because We love the WoundThe Dirk Commemorate—ItselfRemind Us that we died.