This season of the year,
And when a soul perceives itself
To be an Emperor.
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Because I could not stop for Death,
The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.We slowly drove, he knew no haste,And I had put awayMy labor, and my leisure too,For his civility.We passed the school where children played,Their lessons scarcely done;We passed the fields of gazing grain,We passed the setting sun.We paused before a house that seemedA swelling of the ground;The roof was…
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How ignorant I had beenOf pretty ways of Covenant—How awkward at the HymnRound our new Fireside—but for this—This pattern—of the Way—Whose Memory drowns me, like the DipOf a Celestial Sea—What Mornings in our Garden—guessed—What Bees—for us—to hum—With only Birds to interruptThe Ripple of our Theme—And Task for Both—When Play be done—Your Problem—of the Brain—And mine—some…
My Garden—like the Beach—
That’s Summer—Such as These—the PearlsShe fetches—such as Me
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And No Man—is the OneOf all the Battles prevalent—By far the Greater One—No News of it is had abroad—Its Bodiless CampaignEstablishes, and terminates—Invisible—Unknown&mdas h;Nor History—record it—As Legions of a NightThe Sunrise scatters—These endure—Enact—and terminate—
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That Wagon never reached—No Dead, were ever carried down—No Peddler’s Cart—approached—Whose Chimney never smoked—Whose Windows—Night and Morn—Caught Sunrise first—and Sunset—last—Then—held an Empty Pane—Whose fate—Conjecture knew—No other neighbor—did—And what it was—we never lisped—Because He—never told—
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In itself—a quiet thingThat may furnish the Fuse unto a SparkIn dormant nature—lain—Let us deport—with skill—Let us discourse—with care—Powder exists in Charcoal—Before it exists in Fire.