He offers His Berry, just the same
To Partridge—and to Boy—
He sometimes holds upon the Fence—
Or struggles to a Tree—
Or clasps a Rock, with both His Hands—
But not for Sympathy—
We—tell a Hurt—to cool it—
This Mourner—to the Sky
A little further reaches—instead—
Brave Black Berry—
Is when the Cars have come—And we are waiting for the Coach—It seems as though the TimeIndignant—that the Joy was come—Did block the Gilded Hands—And would not let the Seconds by—But slowest instant—ends—The Pendulum begins to count—Like little Scholars—loud—The steps grow thicker—in the Hall—The Heart begins to crowd—Then I—my timid service done—Tho’ service ’twas, of…
Confer upon My flower—Refracted but a Countenance—For I—inhabit Her—
That fine ProsperityWhose Sources are interior—As soon—AdversityA Diamond—overtakeIn far—Bolivian Ground—Misfortune hath no implementCould mar it—if it found—
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
Indemnity for LonelinessThat such a Bliss has been.
To imitate these Neighbors fleetIn awe and innocence, were meet.
