Frequently are brown.
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town.
Oft a head is crested
I was wont to see—
And as oft a cranny
Where it used to be—
And the Earth— they tell me—
On its Axis turned!
Wonderful Rotation!
By but twelve performed!
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And how if He be dead—And so around the Words I went—Of meeting them—afraid—I hinted Changes—Lapse of Time—The Surfaces of Years—I touched with Caution—lest they crack—And show me to my fears—Reverted to adjoining Lives—Adroitly turning outWherever I suspected Graves—‘Twas prudenter—I thought—And He—I pushed—with sudden force—In face of the Suspense—‘Was buried’—’Buried’! ‘He!’My Life just holds the…
The Hills in Purple syllables
To little Groups of ContinentsJust going Home from School.
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Lives will fret—Give Avalanches—And they’ll slant—Straighten—look cautious for their Breath—But make no syllable—like Death—Who only shows the Marble Disc—Sublimer sort—than Speech—
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Dyes—said He—have I—Could disparage a Flamingo—Show Me them—said I—Cochineal—I chose—for deemingIt resemble Thee—And the little Border—Dusker—For resembling Me—
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As round a Goalless RoadNo faster than a Mile at onceThe Traveller proceed—Unconscious of the Width—Unconscious that the SunBe setting on His progress—So accurate the OneAt estimating Pain—Whose own—has just begun—His ignorance—the AngelThat pilot Him along—
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Death, the only OneYou cannot find out all aboutIn his ‘native town.’Nobody know ‘his Father’—Never was a Boy—Hadn’t any playmates,Or ‘Early history’—Industrious! Laconic!Punctual! Sedate!Bold as a Brigand!Stiller than a Fleet!Builds, like a Bird, too!Christ robs the Nest—Robin after RobinSmuggled to Rest!