That interrupt the Morn
With hurried—few—express Reports
When March is scarcely on—
The Robin is the One
That overflow the Noon
With her cherubic quantity—
An April but begun—
The Robin is the One
That speechless from her Nest
Submit that Home—and Certainty
And Sanctity, are best
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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!
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I winnowed what would fadeFrom what would last till Heads like mineShould be a-dreaming laid.I put the latter in a Barn—The former, blew away.I went one winter morningAnd lo – my priceless HayWas not upon the ‘Scaffold’—Was not upon the ‘Beam’—And from a thriving Farmer—A Cynic, I became.Whether a Thief did it—Whether it was the…
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Delayed till in its vest of snowHer loving bosom lay—An hour behind the fleeting breath—Later by just an hour than Death—Oh lagging Yesterday!Could she have guessed that it would be—Could but a crier of the joyHave climbed the distant hill—Had not the bliss so slow a paceWho knows but this surrendered faceWere undefeated still?Oh if…
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Some that never layMake their first Repose this WinterI admonish TheeBlanket Wealthier the NeighborWe so new bestowThan thine acclimated CreatureWilt Thou, Austere Snow?
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As far as Death this way—Of River or of Ridge beyondWas no discovery.How far is it to Hell?As far as Death this way—How far left hand the SepulchreDefies Topography.