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Eclipse—at Midnight—It was dark—before—Sunset—at Easter—Blindness—on the Dawn—Faint Star of Bethlehem—Gone down!Would but some God—inform Him—Or it be too late!Say—that the pulse just lisps—The Chariots wait—Say—that a little life—for His—Is leaking—red—His little Spaniel—tell Him!Will He heed?

For an Eternity—I fear me this CircumferenceEngross my Finity—To His exclusion, who prepareBy Processes of SizeFor the Stupendous VisionOf his diameters—

The Soul to entertainWith Silence as a CompanyAnd Festival maintainIs an unfurnished CircumstancePossession is to OneAs an Estate perpetualOr a reduceless Mine.

The hue—of it—is Blood—An Artery—upon the Hill—A Vein—along the Road—Great Globules—in the Alleys—And Oh, the Shower of Stain—When Winds—upset the Basin—And spill the Scarlet Rain—It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—It gathers ruddy Pools—Then—eddies like a Rose—away—Upon Vermilion Wheels—

No Station in the Day?‘Twas not thy wont, to hinder so—Retrieve thine industry—‘Tis Noon—My little Maid—Alas—and art thou sleeping yet?The Lily—waiting to be Wed—The Bee—Hast thou forgot?My little Maid—’Tis Night—AlasThat Night should be to theeInstead of Morning—Had’st thou broachedThy little Plan to Die—Dissuade thee, if I could not, Sweet,I might have aided—thee—

Red — is the Fire’s common tint —But when the vivid OreHas vanquished Flame’s conditions,It quivers from the ForgeWithout a color, but the lightOf unanointed Blaze.Least Village has its BlacksmithWhose Anvil’s even ringStands symbol for the finer ForgeThat soundless tugs — within —Re[f]ining these impatient OresWith Hammer, and with BlazeUntile the Designated LightRepudiate the Forge