The Color of a Sun
At setting—this and Amber—
Beryl—and this, at Noon—
And when at night—Auroran widths
Fling suddenly on men—
‘Tis this—and Witchcraft—nature keeps
A Rank—for Iodine—
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My Caspian—thee.
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Tabernacle or Tomb—Or Dome of Worm—Or Porch of Gnome—Or some Elf’s Catacomb?
Drowning is not so pitiful
Three times, ‘t is said, a sinking manComes up to face the skies,And then declines foreverTo that abhorred abodeWhere hope and he part company,—For he is grasped of God.The Maker’s cordial visage,However good to see,Is shunned, we must admit it,Like an adversity.
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Who Bounty—have not known—The fact of Famine—could not beExcept for Fact of Corn—Want—is a meagre ArtAcquired by Reverse—The Poverty that was not Wealth—Cannot be Indigence.
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A Tyrian light the village fills—A wider sunrise in the morn—A deeper twilight on the lawn—A print of a vermillion foot—A purple finger on the slope—A flippant fly upon the pane—A spider at his trade again—An added strut in Chanticleer—A flower expected everywhere—An axe shrill singing in the woods—Fern odors on untravelled roads—All this and…
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Become so wondrous dear—As for the lost we grappleTho’ all the rest are here—In broken mathematicsWe estimate our prizeVast—in its fading rationTo our penurious eyes!