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Upon a Marge of Snow—It suits his own Austerity—And satisfies an aweThat men, must slake in Wilderness—And in the Desert—cloy—An instinct for the Hoar, the Bald—Lapland’s—necessity—The Hemlock’s nature thrives—on cold—The Gnash of Northern windsIs sweetest nutriment—to him—His best Norwegian Wines—To satin Races—he is nought—But Children on the Don,Beneath his Tabernacles, play,And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.

‘I am Jesus—Late of Judea—Now—of Paradise’—Wagons—have you—to convey me?This is far from Thence—‘Arms of Mine—sufficient Phaeton—Trust Omnipotence’—I am spotted—’I am Pardon’—I am small—’The LeastIs esteemed in Heaven the Chiefest—Occupy my House’—

And you should live—And time should gurgle on—And morn should beam—And noon should burn—As it has usual done—If Birds should build as earlyAnd Bees as bustling go—One might depart at optionFrom enterprise below!‘Tis sweet to know that stocks will standWhen we with Daisies lie—That Commerce will continue—And Trades as briskly fly—It makes the parting tranquilAnd…

I heard the Buckle snap—And turned away, imperial,My Lifetime folding up—Deliberate, as a Duke would doA Kingdom’s Title Deed—Henceforth, a Dedicated sort—A Member of the Cloud.Yet not too far to come at call—And do the little ToilsThat make the Circuit of the Rest—And deal occasional smilesTo lives that stoop to notice mine—And kindly ask it…

Yet Man has not of all the ThrongA Curiosity.

The Eastern Exiles—be—Who strayed beyond the Amber lineSome madder Holiday—And ever since—the purple MoatThey strive to climb—in vain—As Birds—that tumble from the cloudsDo fumble at the strain—The Blessed Ether—taught them—Some Transatlantic Morn—When Heaven—was too common—to miss—Too sure—to dote upon!