To Lives that stand alone—
When One has failed to stop them—
Is Human—but Divine
To lend an Ample Sinew
Unto a Nameless Man—
Whose Homely Benediction
No other—stopped to earn—
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It stole along so stealthy
Was dim as to the wealthyBeginning not to own –
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Will refund by Hand—Seed of Palm, by Libyan SunFructified in Sand—
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So I keep bringing These—Just as the Night keeps fetching StarsTo our familiar eyes—Maybe, we shouldn’t mind them—Unless they didn’t come—Then—maybe, it would puzzle usTo find our way Home—
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Whose maids upon remoter greenKeep their Seraphic May—And all day long, with dance and game,And gambol I may never name—Employ their holiday.Here to light measure, move the feetWhich walk no more the village street—Nor by the wood are found—Here are the birds that sought the sunWhen last year’s distaff idle hungAnd summer’s brows were bound.Ne’er…
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Nor will He—like the Dumb—Reveal by sign—a syllableOf His Profound To Come—But when the News be ripe—Presents it—in the Act—Forestalling Preparation—Escape—or Substitute—Indifference to Him—The Dower—as the Doom—His Office—but to executeFate’s—Telegram—to Him—
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The Forests as they frozeTogether heard them strengtheningEach other with the wordsThat Heaven if Heaven—must containWhat Either left behindAnd then the cheer too solemn grewFor language, and the windLong steps across the features tookThat Love had touched the MornWith reverential Hyacinth—The taleless Days went onTill Mystery impatient drewAnd those They left behindLed absent, were procured…