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Who dies—and to his friend—Beyond that—unconspicuousTo Anyone but God—Of these Two—God remembersThe longest—for the friend—Is integral—and thereforeItself dissolved—of God—

Day and I—in competition ran—I finished Two—and several Stars—While He—was making One—His own was ampler—but as IWas saying to a friend—Mine—is the more convenientTo Carry in the Hand—

Has Anybody found?You’ll know it by the Row of StarsAround its forehead bound.A Rich man—might not notice it—Yet—to my frugal Eye,Of more Esteem than Ducats—Oh find it—Sir—for me!

The Apple on the Tree—Provided it do hopeless—hang—That—’He aven’ is—to Me!The Color, on the Cruising Cloud—The interdicted Land—Behind the Hill—the House behind—There—Paradise—is found!Her teasing Purples—Afternoons—The credulous—decoy—Enamored—of the Conjuror—That spurned us—Yesterday!

And bear to all my friends,Drinking to her no more astir,By beck, or burn, or moor!

I—hastened to demandTo fill the awful VacuumYour life had left behind—I worried Nature with my WheelsWhen Hers had ceased to run—When she had put away Her WorkMy own had just begun.I strove to weary Brain and Bone—To harass to fatigueThe glittering Retinue of nerves—Vitality to clogTo some dull comfort Those obtainWho put a Head awayThey…