The Spider as an Artist

How old the News of Love must beTo make Lips elderlyThat purled a moment since with Glee –Is it Delight or Woe –Or Terror – that do decorateThis livid interview –

As Beggars revel at a feastBy savory Fancy spread—As brooks in deserts babble sweetOn ear too far for the delight,Heaven beguiles the tired.As that same watcher, when the EastOpens the lid of AmethystAnd lets the morning go—That Beggar, when an honored Guest,Those thirsty lips to flagons pressed,Heaven to us, if true.

True, like the Tomb,Who tells no secretTold to Him—The Grave is strict—Tickets admitJust two—the Bearer—And the Borne—And seat—just One—The Living—tell—The Dying—but a Syllable—The Coy Dead—None—No Chatter—here—no tea—So Babbler, and Bohea—stay there—But Gravity—and Expectation—and Fear—A tremor just, that All’s not sure.

What right have I—to be a Bride—So late a Dowerless Girl—Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face—No one to teach me that new Grace—Nor introduce—my Soul—Me to adorn—How—tell—Trinket—to make Me beautiful—Fabrics of Cashmere—Never a Gown of Dun—more—Raiment instead—of Pompadour—For Me—My soul—to wear—Fingers—to frame my Round HairOval—as Feudal Ladies wore—Far Fashions—Fair—Skill to hold my Brow like an…

The North—Tonight—So adequate—it forms—So preconcerted with itself—So distant—to alarms—And Unconcern so sovereignTo Universe, or me—Infects my simple spiritWith Taints of Majesty—Till I take vaster attitudes—And strut upon my stem—Disdaining Men, and Oxygen,For Arrogance of them—My Splendors, are Menagerie—But their Completeless ShowWill entertain the CenturiesWhen I, am long ago,An Island in dishonored Grass—Whom none but Beetles—know.

By this—was William KiddPersuaded of the Buried Gold—As One had testified—Through this—the old Philosopher—His Talismanic StoneDiscernéd—still withholdenTo effort undivine—‘Twas this—allured Columbus—When Genoa—withdrewBefore an ApparitionBaptized America—The Same—afflicted Thomas—When Deity assured‘Twas better—the perceiving not—Provided it believed—