Their Glory—nought to me—
‘Twas best imperfect—as it was—
I’m finite—I can’t see—
The House of Supposition—
The Glimmering Frontier that
Skirts the Acres of Perhaps—
To Me—shows insecure—
The Wealth I had—contented me—
If ’twas a meaner size—
Then I had counted it until
It pleased my narrow Eyes—
Better than larger values—
That show however true—
This timid life of Evidence
Keeps pleading—’I don’t know.’
Great clouds like ushers leaning,Creation looking on.The flesh surrendered, cancelledThe bodiless begun;Two worlds, like audiences, disperseAnd leave the soul alone.
Though favorably mentionedIn Entomology –Because he travels freelyAnd wears a proper coatThe circumspect are certainThat he is dissolute –Had he the homely scutcheonOf modest Industry‘Twere fitter certifyingFor Immortality –
With different Delight—Because—when next it burns abroadThey doubt to witness it—The Man—to die—tomorrow—Harks for the Meadow Bird—Because its Music stirs the AxeThat clamors for his head—Joyful—to whom the SunrisePrecedes Enamored—Day—Joyful—for whom the Meadow BirdHas ought but Elegy!
Of Crickets – Crows – and RetrospectsAnd a dissembling BreezeThat hints without assuming –An Innuendo searThat makes the Heart put up its FunAnd turn Philosopher.
‘Which obtain the Day’?‘General, the British’—’Easy’Answered Wolfe ‘to die’Montcalm, his opposing SpiritRendered with a smile‘Sweet’ said he ‘my own SurrenderLiberty’s beguile’
In plenty may be seen,A Pink and Pulpy multitudeThe tepid Ground upon.A needless life, it seemed to meUntil a little BirdAs to a HospitalityAdvanced and breakfasted.As I of He, so God of MeI pondered, may have judged,And left the little Angle WormWith Modesties enlarged.
