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I have heard but one—Low as the laughter of the Cricket,Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue—Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,When the Tide’s a’ lull—Saying itself in new infection—Like a Whippoorwill—Breaking in bright OrthographyOn my simple sleep—Thundering its Prospective—Till I stir, and weep—Not for the Sorrow, done me—But the push of Joy—Say it again, Saxton!Hush—Only to me!

I’m not ashamed of thatChrist—stooped until He touched the Grave—Do those at SacramentCommemorative DishonorOr love annealed of loveUntil it bend as low as DeathRedignified, above?

Some Vision of the World Cashmere—I confidently see!Or else a Peacock’s purple TrainFeather by feather—on the plainFritters itself away!The dreamy Butterflies bestir!Lethargic pools resume the whirOf last year’s sundered tune!From some old Fortress on the sunBaronial Bees—march—one by one—In murmuring platoon!The Robins stand as thick todayAs flakes of snow stood yesterday—On fence—and Roof—and Twig!The Orchis…

His Nature is at FullOr Quarter—as I signify—His Tides—do I control—He holds superior in the SkyOr gropes, at my CommandBehind inferior Clouds—or roundA Mist’s slow Colonnade—But since We hold a Mutual Disc—And front a Mutual Day—Which is the Despot, neither knows—Nor Whose—the Tyranny—

His musket on his breast—Grant God, he charge the bravestOf all the martial blest!Please God, might I behold himIn epauletted white—I should not fear the foe then—I should not fear the fight!

In which His Face is set—All Latitudes exist for HisSufficient Continent—The Light His Action, and the DarkThe Leisure of His Will—In Him Existence serve or setA Force illegible.