On this late Morn—the Sun—
The clouds—like listless Elephants—
Horizons—straggled down—
The Birds rose smiling, in their nests—
The gales—indeed—were done—
Alas, how heedless were the eyes—
On whom the summer shone!
The quiet nonchalance of death—
No Daybreak—can bestir—
The slow—Archangel’s syllables
Must awaken her!
Ruddy as that coeval AppleThe Tradition bears –Fresh as Mankind that humble storyThough a statelier TaleGrown in the Repetition hoaryScarcely would prevail –Tell had a son – The ones that knew itNeed not linger here –Those who did not to Human NatureWill subscribe a Tear –Tell would not bare his HeadIn PresenceOf the Ducal Hat…
Never deny Me—Never fly—Those same unvarying EyesTurn on Me—when I fail—or feign,Or take the Royal names in vain—Their far—slow—Violet Gaze—My Strong Madonnas—Cherish still—The Wayward Nun—beneath the Hill—Whose service—is to You—Her latest Worship—When the DayFades from the Firmament away—To lift Her Brows on You—
Though favorably mentionedIn Entomology –Because he travels freelyAnd wears a proper coatThe circumspect are certainThat he is dissolute –Had he the homely scutcheonOf modest Industry‘Twere fitter certifyingFor Immortality –
And in my wondering handA Stranger pressed a Kingdom,And I, bewildered, stand—As if I asked the OrientHad it for me a Morn—And it should lift its purple Dikes,And shatter me with Dawn!
Doth seldom go abroad—Diviner Crowd at Home—Obliterate the need—And Courtesy forbidA Host’s departure whenUpon Himself be visitingThe Emperor of Men—
To imitate these Neighbors fleetIn awe and innocence, were meet.
