A Sepulchre, between—
Cross it, and overcome the Bee—
Remain—’tis but a Rind.
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Yet Both so well knew meThey startled, like ExecutorsOf My identity.Yet Neither told—that I could learn—My Secret as secureAs Herschel’s private interestOr Mercury’s affair—
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Somewhere—in Silence—He has hid his rare lifeFrom our gross eyes.‘Tis an instant’s play.‘Tis a fond Ambush—Just to make BlissEarn her own surprise!But—should the playProve piercing earnest—Should the glee—glaze—In Death’s—stiff—stare—Wou ld not the funLook too expensive!Would not the jest—Have crawled too far!
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Upon a festal day,‘Twill be because beyond the RoseI have been called away—If I should cease to take the namesMy buds commemorate—‘Twill be because Death’s fingerClaps my murmuring lip!
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The Crier’s voice would tell me—If those I loved were foundThe bells of Ghent would ring—Did those I loved reposeThe Daisy would impel me.Philip—when bewilderedBore his riddle in!
Remembrance has a Rear and Front –
It has a Garret alsoFor Refuse and the Mouse.Besides the deepest CellarThat ever Mason laid –Look to it by its FathomsOurselves be not pursued –
I never saw a moor,
Yet now I know how the heather looks,And what a wave must be.I never spoke with God,Nor visited in Heaven;Yet certain am I of the spotAs if the chart were given.