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Returns no syllableBut long records the Lady’s nameIn Silver Chronicle.

When they take the knife!Underneath their fine incisionsStirs the Culprit—Life!

That unfrequented—one—With many a turn—and thorn—That stops—at Heaven—This—was the Town—she passed—There—where she—rested—last—Then—stepped more fast—The little tracks—close prest—Then—not so swift—Slow—slow—as feet did weary—grow—Then—stopped—no other track!Wait! Look! Her little Book—The leaf—at love—turned back—Her very Hat—And this worn shoe just fits the track—Herself—though—fled!Another bed—a short one—Women make—tonight—In Chambers bright—Too out of sight—though—For our hoarse Good Night—To touch her…

I cannot climb thee—But, were it Two—Who know but we—Taking turns—at the Chimborazo—Ducal—at last—stand up by thee—Love—thou are deep—I cannot cross thee—But, were there TwoInstead of One—Rower, and Yacht—some sovereign Summer—Who knows—but we’d reach the Sun?Love—thou are Veiled—A few—behold thee—Smile—and alter—and prattle—and die—Bliss—were an Oddity—without thee—Nicknamed by God—Eternity—

Nor any death, but lestDispelled from there;Nor tie to earths to come,Nor action new,Except through this extent,The Realm of You!

The East—Her Purple TrothKeeps with the Hill—The Noon unwinds Her BlueTill One Breadth cover Two—Remotest—still—Nor does the Night forgetA Lamp for Each—to set—Wicks wide away—The North—Her blazing SignErects in Iodine—Till Both—can see—The Midnight’s Dusky ArmsClasp Hemispheres, and HomesAnd soUpon Her Bosom—One—And One upon Her Hem—Both lie—