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Some eighteen thousand years –As old as BlissHow old is thatThey are of equal yearsTogether chiefest they ard foundBut seldom side by sideFrom neither of them tho’ he tryCan Human nature hide

And that was in the sod.Twice have I stood a beggarBefore the door of God!Angels—twice descendingReimbursed my store—Burglar! Banker—Father!I am poor once more!

First—Poets—Then the Sun—Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God—And then—the List is done—But, looking back—the First so seemsTo Comprehend the Whole—The Others look a needless Show—So I write—Poets—All—Their Summer—lasts a Solid Year—They can afford a SunThe East—would deem extravagant—And if the Further Heaven—Be Beautiful as they prepareFor Those who worship Them—It is too difficult a Grace—To…

Velvet people from Vevay—Balles from some lost summer day—Bees exclusive Coterie—Paris could not lay the foldBelted down with Emerald—Venice could not show a checkOf a tint so lustrous meek—Never such an AmbuscadeAs of briar and leaf displayedFor my little damask maid—I had rather wear her graceThan an Earl’s distinguished face—I had rather dwell like herThan…

A stealing that is not a stealthAnd Summers are away

Without the Loneliness—I’m so accustomed to my Fate—Perhaps the Other—Peace—Would interrupt the Dark—And crowd the little Room—Too scant—by Cubits—to containThe Sacrament—of Him—I am not used to Hope—It might intrude upon—Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place—Ordained to Suffering—It might be easierTo fail—with Land in Sight—Than gain—My Blue Peninsula—To perish—of Delight—