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In keen and quivering ratioTo the ectasty.For each beloved hourSharp pittances of years,Bitter contested farthingsAnd coffers heaped with tears.

To Mr. So and So,The web of live woven—So martyrs albums show!

Dyes—said He—have I—Could disparage a Flamingo—Show Me them—said I—Cochineal—I chose—for deemingIt resemble Thee—And the little Border—Dusker—For resembling Me—

Through Faith—my Hazel EyeHas periods of shutting—But, No lid has Memory—For frequent, all my sense obscuredI equally beholdAs someone held a light untoThe Features so beloved—-And I arise—and in my Dream—Do Thee distinguished Grace—Till jealous Daylight interrupt—And mar thy perfectness—

No Hue of Afternoon—Upon the Village I perceivedFrom House to House ’twas Noon—The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—stillNo Dew upon the Grass—But only on my Forehead stopped—And wandered in my Face—My Feet kept drowsing—drowsing—stillMy fingers were awake—Yet why so little sound—MyselfUnto my Seeming—make?How well I knew the Light before—I could see it now—‘Tis Dying—I am doing—butI’m not…

Saves she all of that for sunsets,–Prodigal of blue,Spending scarlet like a woman,Yellow she affordsOnly scantly and selectly,Like a lover’s words.