A waking on a morn
To find that what one waked for,
Inhales the different dawn.
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The Violet—is Noon—The Yellow—Day—is falling—And after that—is none—But Miles of Sparks—at Evening—Reveal the Width that burned—The Territory Argent—thatNever yet—consumed—
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To lips long parchingNext to mine,And summon them to drink;Crackling with fever, they Essay,I turn my brimming eyes away,And come next hour to look.The hands still hug the tardy glass—The lips I would have cooled, alas—Are so superfluous Cold—I would as soon attempt to warmThe bosoms where the frost has lainAges beneath the mould—Some other…
The brain within its groove
But let a splinter swerve,‘T were easier for youTo put the water backWhen floods have slit the hills,And scooped a turnpike for themselves,And blotted out the mills!
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Was saying YesterdayTo Somebody you knowThat you were due—The Frogs got Home last Week—Are settled, and at work—Birds, mostly back—The Clover warm and thick—You’ll get my Letter byThe seventeenth; ReplyOr better, be with me—Yours, Fly.
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Posterior—to Death—Initial of Creation, andThe Exponent of Earth—
A little Dog that wags his tail
Of such a little Dog am IReminded by a BoyWho gambols all the living DayWithout an earthly causeBecause he is a little BoyI honestly suppose –The Cat that in the Corner dwellsHer martial Day forgotThe Mouse but a Tradition nowOf her desireless LotAnother class remind meWho neither please nor playBut not to make a ‘bit…