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Fond, and late—We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave—Of ours, none affair—We handled Destinies, as cool—As we—Disposers—be—And God, a Quiet PartyTo our Authority—But fondest, dwelt upon OurselfAs we eventual—be—When Girls to Women, softly raisedWe—occupy—Degree—We parted with a contractTo cherish, and to writeBut Heaven made both, impossibleBefore another night.

It’s very mean of ScienceTo go and interfere!I slew a worm the other day—A ‘Savant’ passing byMurmured ‘Resurgam’—’Centipede’!&q uot;Oh Lord—how frail are we’!I pull a flower from the woods—A monster with a glassComputes the stamens in a breath—And has her in a ‘class’!Whereas I took the ButterflyAforetime in my hat—He sits erect in ‘Cabinets’—The Clover…

Poets—ended—Silver—perished—w ith her Tongue—Not on Record—bubbled other,Flute—or Woman—So divine—Not unto its Summer—MorningRobin—uttered Half the Tune—Gushed too free for the Adoring—From the Anglo-Florentine—Late—the Praise—‘Tis dull—conferringOn the Head too High to Crown—Diadem—or Ducal Showing—Be its Grave—sufficient sign—Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—Suffocate—with easy woe—What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—Put Her down—in Italy?

But she must buy my shelterI asked Humility

Death—we do not know—Christ’s acquaintance with HimJustify Him—though—He—would trust no stranger—Other—could betray—Just His own endorsement—That—sufficeth Me—All the other DistanceHe hath traversed first—No New Mile remaineth—Far as Paradise—His sure foot preceding—Tender Pioneer—Base must be the CowardDare not venture—now—

I’d bring them every flower that growsFrom Amherst to Cashmere!I would not stop for night, or storm—Or frost, or death, or anyone—My business were so dear!If they would linger for a BirdMy Tambourin were soonest heardAmong the April Woods!Unwearied, all the summer long,Only to break in wilder songWhen Winter shook the boughs!What if they hear…