622

Poets—ended—Silver—perished—with her Tongue—Not on Record—bubbled other,Flute—or Woman—So divine—Not unto its Summer—MorningRobin—uttered Half the Tune—Gushed too free for the Adoring—From the Anglo-Florentine—Late—the Praise—‘Tis dull—conferringOn the Head too High to Crown—Diadem—or Ducal Showing—Be its Grave—sufficient sign—Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—Suffocate—with easy woe—What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—Put Her down—in Italy?

Would it try mine—Worn—now—and dull—sweet,Writing much to thee.If it had no word,Would it make the Daisy,Most as big as I was,When it plucked me?

Confided are his projects pinkTo no precarious man.If nature will not tell the taleJehovah told to herCan human nature not surviveWithout a listener?Admonished by her buckled lipsLet every babbler beThe only secret people keepIs Immortality.

Then drop the paste,And deem ourself a fool.The shapes, though, were similar,And our new handsLearned gem-tacticsPractising sands.

When suddenly across the luneA wind with fingers goes.They perished in the seamless grass,–No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless listCan summon every face

He outstripped Stars and SunAnd then, unjaded, challenged GodIn presence of the Throne.And He and He in mighty ListUnto this present, run,The larger Glory for the lessA just sufficient Ring.