I was not called—
Death did not notice me.
I bring my Rose.
I plight again,
By every sainted Bee—
By Daisy called from hillside—
by Bobolink from lane.
Blossom and I—
Her oath, and mine—
Will surely come again.
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As round a Goalless RoadNo faster than a Mile at onceThe Traveller proceed—Unconscious of the Width—Unconscious that the SunBe setting on His progress—So accurate the OneAt estimating Pain—Whose own—has just begun—His ignorance—the AngelThat pilot Him along—
846
Proffered to the Plain—Twice a Winter’s silver FractureOn the Rivers been—Two full Autumns for the SquirrelBounteous prepared—Nature, Had’st thou not a BerryFor thy wandering Bird?
The only ghost I ever saw
He wore no sandal on his foot,And stepped like flakes of snow.His gait was soundless, like the bird,But rapid, like the roe;His fashions quaint, mosaic,Or, haply, mistletoe.Hi conversation seldom,His laughter like the breezeThat dies away in dimplesAmong the pensive trees.Our interview was transient, —Of me, himself was shy;And God forbid I look behindSince that appalling…
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The Crier’s voice would tell me—If those I loved were foundThe bells of Ghent would ring—Did those I loved reposeThe Daisy would impel me.Philip—when bewilderedBore his riddle in!
546
Insert the Thing that caused it—Block it upWith Other—and ’twill yawn the more—You cannot solder an AbyssWith Air.
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And see the People—going by—I—should die of the Oddity—But then—I’m not so staid—as He—He keeps His Secrets safely—very—Were He to tell—extremely sorryThis Bashful Globe of Ours would be—So dainty of Publicity—