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By strech of limb or stir of lid, —An independent one.Was ever idleness like this?Within a hut of stoneTo bask the centuries awayNor once look up for noon?

An Honor, Thought can turn her toWhen lesser Fames invite—With one long ‘Nay’—Bliss’ early shapeDeforming—Dwindling—Gulfing up—Time’s possibility.

Myself—a MillionaireIn little Wealths, as Girls could boastTill broad as Buenos Ayre—You drifted your Dominions—A Different Peru—And I esteemed All PovertyFor Life’s Estate with you—Of Mines, I little know—myself—But just the names, of Gems—The Colors of the Commonest—And scarce of Diadems—So much, that did I meet the Queen—Her Glory I should know—But this, must be…

It’s Somewhat in the Cold—And Somewhat in the Trudging feet—And haply, in the World—The Cruel—smiling—bowing World—That took its Cambric Way—Nor heard the timid cry for ‘Bread’—‘Sweet Lady—Charity’—Among Redeemed ChildrenIf Trudging feet may standThe Barefoot time forgotten—so—The Sleet—the bitter Wind—The Childish Hands that teased for PenceLifted adoring—them—To Him whom never Ragged—CoatDid supplicate in vain—

To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need.Not one of all the purple HostWho took the Flag todayCan tell the definitionSo clear of VictoryAs he defeated–dying–On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBurst agonized and clear!

But Silence is Infinity.Himself have not a face.