The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—
Great Globules—in the Alleys—
And Oh, the Shower of Stain—
When Winds—upset the Basin—
And spill the Scarlet Rain—
It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—
It gathers ruddy Pools—
Then—eddies like a Rose—away—
Upon Vermilion Wheels—
Which lead the seasons by,Needs but to rememberThat from you or I,They may take the trifleTermed mortality!
To Lives that stand alone—When One has failed to stop them—Is Human—but DivineTo lend an Ample SinewUnto a Nameless Man—Whose Homely BenedictionNo other—stopped to earn—
The East—Her Purple TrothKeeps with the Hill—The Noon unwinds Her BlueTill One Breadth cover Two—Remotest—still—Nor does the Night forgetA Lamp for Each—to set—Wicks wide away—The North—Her blazing SignErects in Iodine—Till Both—can see—The Midnight’s Dusky ArmsClasp Hemispheres, and HomesAnd soUpon Her Bosom—One—And One upon Her Hem—Both lie—
Their Purple figures riseWithout attempt—Exhaustion—Assistance—or Applause—In Their Eternal FacesThe Sun—with just delightLooks long—and last—and golden—For fellowship—at night—
But Bread is that Diviner thingDisclosed to be denied
Two—be finished using—Well enough for Schools—But for Minor Choosing—Life—just—or Death—Or the Everlasting—More—would be too vastFor the Soul’s Comprising—
