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Though its hallucinationIs last that leaves –Tomorrow – thou RetrieverOf every tare –Of Alibi art thouOr ownest where?

Of Neighbors and the SunWill be the one aware of DeathAnd that itself aloneIs traversing the intervalExperience betweenAnd most profound experimentAppointed unto Men—How adequate unto itselfIts properties shall beItself unto itself and noneShall make discovery.Adventure most unto itselfThe Soul condemned to be—Attended by a single HoundIts own identity.

I don’t care for pouting skies!If the Butterfly delayCan I, therefore, stay away?If the Coward Bumble BeeIn his chimney corner stay,I, must resoluter be!Who’ll apologize for me?Dear, Old fashioned, little flower!Eden is old fashioned, too!Birds are antiquated fellows!Heaven does not change her blue.Nor will I, the little Heart’s Ease—Ever be induced to do!

Nor Doubt of Scene to come,But an adjourning Heart –

The Women—plucked awayFrom our familiar Lifetime—The Men of Ivory—Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—Who stay upon the WallIn Everlasting Keepsake—Can Anybody tell?We trust—in places perfecter—Inheriting DelightBeyond our faint Conjecture—Our dizzy Estimate—Remembering ourselves, we trust—Yet Blesseder—than We—Through Knowing—where We only hope—Receiving—where we—pray—Of Expectation—also—Anticipating usWith transport, that would be a painExcept for Holiness—Esteeming us—as Exile—Themself—admitted Home—Through easy…

Till You had tasted first,Though cooler than the Water wasThe Thoughtfullness of Thirst.