873

So I can hang it in my room—And make believe I’m getting warmWhen others call it ‘Day’!Draw me a Robin—on a stem—So I am hearing him, I’ll dream,And when the Orchards stop their tune—Put my pretense—away—Say if it’s really—warm at noon—Whether it’s Buttercups—that ‘skim’—Or Butterflies—that ‘bloom’?Then—skip—the frost—upon the lea—And skip the Russet—on the tree—Let’s play…

A hurry in the breath—An ecstasy of partingDenominated ‘Death’—An anguish at the mentionWhich when to patience grown,I’ve known permission givenTo rejoin its own.

And Roses in the Seed—A Summer briefer than the firstBut tenderer indeedAs should a Face supposed the Grave’sEmerge a single NoonIn the Vermilion that it woreAffect us, and return—Two Seasons, it is said, exist—The Summer of the Just,And this of Ours, diversifiedWith Prospect, and with Frost—May not our Second with its FirstSo infinite compareThat We…

Whole Pools of it—I’m used to that—But the least push of JoyBreaks up my feet—And I tip—drunken—Let no Pebble—smile—‘Twas the New Liquor—That was all!Power is only Pain—Stranded, thro’ Discipline,Till Weights—will hang—Give Balm—to Giants—And they’ll wilt, like Men—Give Himmaleh—They’ll Carry—Him!

True, like the Tomb,Who tells no secretTold to Him—The Grave is strict—Tickets admitJust two—the Bearer—And the Borne—And seat—just One—The Living—tell—The Dying—but a Syllable—The Coy Dead—None—No Chatter—here—no tea—So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there—But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear—A tremor just, that All’s not sure.

And that defies me,–as a handDid try to chalk the sunTo races nurtured in the dark;–How would your own begin?Can blaze be done in cochineal,Or noon in mazarin?