The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.
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And Anguish—absolute—And many hurt,But, what of that?I reason, we could die—The best VitalityCannot excel Decay,But, what of that?I reason, that in Heaven—Somehow, it will be even—Some new Equation, given—But, what of that?
How firm Eternity must look
The only Adamant EstateIn all Identity –How mighty to the insecureThy PhysiognomyTo whom not any Face cohere –Unless concealed in thee
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Who influences Flowers—Till they are orderly as Busts—And Elegant—as Glass—Who visits in the Night—And just before the Sun—Concludes his glistening interview—Caresses—and is gone—But whom his fingers touched—And where his feet have run—And whatsoever Mouth be kissed—Is as it had not been—
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Not—I—the Earl—I—feared the Sea—too muchUnsanctified—to touch—Praying that I might beWorthy—the Destiny—The Swarthy fellow swam—And bore my Jewel—Home—Home to the Hut! What lotHad I—the Jewel—got—Borne on a Dusky Breasty—I had not deemed a VestOf Amber—fit—The Negro never knewI—wooed it—too—To gain, or be undone—Alike to Him—One—
It is an honorable thought,
As one encountered gentlefolkUpon a daily street,That we’ve immortal place,Though pyramids decay,And kingdoms, like the orchard,Flit russetly away.
Who were ‘the Father and the Son’
And what had they to do with usAnd when portentous toldWith inference appallingBy Childhood fortifiedWe thought, at least they are no worseThan they have been described.Who are ‘the Father and the Son’Did we demand Today‘The Father and the Son’ himselfWould doubtless specify –But had they the felicityWhen we desired to know.We better Friends had been,…