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Therein thyself shalt findThe ‘Undiscovered Continent’—No Settler had the Mind.

Evening—the Tissue Door—Morning—the East compelling the sillTill all the World is ajar—

Will refund by Hand—Seed of Palm, by Libyan SunFructified in Sand—

And just to turn away,The fluttering of her fringesChild my perfidy—Weary for my—————I will singing go—I shall not feel the sleet—then—I shall not fear the snow.Flees so the phantom meadowBefore the breathless Bee—So bubble brooks in desertsOn Ears that dying lie—Burn so the Evening SpiresTo Eyes that Closing go—Hangs so distant Heaven—To a hand below.

He offers His Berry, just the sameTo Partridge—and to Boy—He sometimes holds upon the Fence—Or struggles to a Tree—Or clasps a Rock, with both His Hands—But not for Sympathy—We—tell a Hurt—to cool it—This Mourner—to the SkyA little further reaches—instead—Brave Black Berry—

Of a delivered syllable‘Twould crumble with the weight.