The Luxury ‘twould be
To look at Thee a single time
An Epicure of Me
In whatsoever Presence makes
Till for a further Food
I scarcely recollect to starve
So first am I supplied—
The Luxury to meditate
The Luxury it was
To banguet on thy Countenance
A Sumptuousness bestows
On plainer Days, whose Table far
As Certainty can see
Is laden with a single Crumb
The Consciousness of Thee.
And I’m accustomed to him grown,–He hurts a little, though.I thought if I could only liveTill that first shout got by,Not all pianos in the woodsHad power to mangle me.I dared not meet the daffodils,For fear their yellow gownWould pierce me with a fashionSo foreign to my own.I wished the grass would hurry,So when ‘t…
Of a shapeless friend—He doth not attest by Posture—Nor Confirm—by Word—Neither Place—need I present Him—Fitter CourtesyHospitable intuitionOf His Company—Presence—is His furthest license—Neither He to MeNor Myself to Him—by Accent—Forfeit Probity—Weariness of Him, were quainterThan MonotonyKnew a Particle—of Space’sVast SocietyNeither if He visit Other—Do He dwell—or Nay—know I—But Instinct esteem HimImmortality—
By Butterflies admiredAt Heavenly—Hopeless Distances—Was justified of Bird—Did Noon—enamel—in HerselfWas Summer to a ScoreWho only knew of Universe—It had created Her.
In it wait till judgment breakExcellent and fair.Be its mattress straight,Be its pillow round;Let no sunrise’ yellow noiseInterrupt this ground.
Termed Thanksgiving Day.Celebrated part at TablePart in Memory.Neither Patriarch nor PussyI dissect the PlaySeems it to my Hooded thinkingReflex Holiday.Had there been no sharp SubtractionFrom the early Sum—Not an Acre or a CaptionWhere was once a Room—Not a Mention, whose small PebbleWrinkled any Sea,Unto Such, were such Assembly‘Twere Thanksgiving Day.
This season of the year,And when a soul perceives itselfTo be an Emperor.
