May be a common thing—
Or only a divine.
It is not of the Bird
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto Crowd—
The Fashion of the Ear
Attireth that it hear
In Dun, or fair—
So whether it be Rune,
Or whether it be none
Is of within.
The ‘Tune is in the Tree—’
The Skeptic—showeth me—
‘No Sir! In Thee!’
Her Cargo—is of Dew—And still—my Heart—my Eye outweighs—East India—for you!
And said that I was strong—And could be mighty, if I liked—That Day—the Days among—Glows Central—like a JewelBetween Diverging Golds—The Minor One—that gleamed behind—And Vaster—of the World’s.
As Tongue of Diamond had reviledAll else accused me—and I smiled—My Soul—that Morning—was My friend—Her favor—is the best DisdainToward Artifice of Time—or Men—But Her Disdain—’twere lighter bearA finger of Enamelled Fire—
A short relief to have the windWalk boldly up and knock –Diversion from the Dying ThemeTo hear the children play –But wrong the moreThat these could liveAnd this of ours must die.
No more Vacation!Term of Light this Day begun!Failless as the fair rotationOf the Seasons and the Sun.Old the Grace, but new the Subjects—Old, indeed, the East,Yet upon His Purple ProgrammeEvery Dawn, is first.
For petty furniture—The Giant tolerates no GnatFor Ease of Gianture—Repudiates it, all the more—Because intrinsic sizeIgnores the possibilityOf Calumnies—or Flies.
