Never deny Me—Never fly—
Those same unvarying Eyes
Turn on Me—when I fail—or feign,
Or take the Royal names in vain—
Their far—slow—Violet Gaze—
My Strong Madonnas—Cherish still—
The Wayward Nun—beneath the Hill—
Whose service—is to You—
Her latest Worship—When the Day
Fades from the Firmament away—
To lift Her Brows on You—
May be a common thing—Or only a divine.It is not of the BirdWho sings the same, unheard,As unto Crowd—The Fashion of the EarAttireth that it hearIn Dun, or fair—So whether it be Rune,Or whether it be noneIs of within.The ‘Tune is in the Tree—’The Skeptic—showeth me—‘No Sir! In Thee!’
Impaled him on her fiercest stakes—He neutralized them all.She stung him, sapped his firm advance,But, when her worst was done,And he, unmoved, regarded her,Acknowledged him a man.
Pray lead me to his bed!I came to build the Bird’s nest,And sow the Early seed—That when the snow creeps slowlyFrom off his chamber door—Daisies point the way there—And the Troubadour.
Won’t somebody bring the lightSo I can see which way to goInto the everlasting snow?And ‘Jesus’! Where is Jesus gone?They said that Jesus—always came—Perhaps he doesn’t know the House—This way, Jesus, Let him pass!Somebody run to the great gateAnd see if Dollie’s coming! Wait!I hear her feet upon the stair!Death won’t hurt—now Dollie’s here!
Such an one—to say—On his babbling—Berry—lips—As should sound—to me—Were my Ear—as near his nest—As my thought—today—As should sound—‘Forbid us not’—Some like ‘Emily.’
God does it—every Day—Creation—but the GambolOf His Authority—It’s easy to efface it—The thrifty DeityCould scarce afford EternityTo Spontaneity—The Perished Patterns murmur—But His Perturbless PlanProceed—inserting Here—a Sun—There—leaving out a Man—
