But did not finish,–some way back,
I could not fix the year,
Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.
But somewhere in my soul, I know
I’ve met the thing before;
It just reminded me–‘t was all–
And came my way no more.
An Agony procures—Affliction ranges Boundlessness—Vicinity to LawsContentment’s quiet Suburb—Affliction cannot stayIn Acres—Its LocationIs Illocality—
And Sunrise grows so nearThat we can touch the Spaces—It’s time to smooth the Hair—And get the Dimples ready—And wonder we could careFor that old—faded Midnight—That frightened—but an Hour—
Then crouch within the door—Red—is the Fire’s common tint—But when the vivid OreHas vanquished Flame’s conditions,It quivers from the ForgeWithout a color, but the lightOf unanointed Blaze.Least Village has its BlacksmithWhose Anvil’s even ringStands symbol for the finer ForgeThat soundless tugs—within—Refining these impatient OresWith Hammer, and with BlazeUntil the Designated LightRepudiate the Forge—
And revery.The revery alone will do,If bees are few.
Across a barn or through a rutDebates if it will go.A narrow wind complains all dayHow some one treated him;Nature, like us, is sometimes caughtWithout her diadem.
Bestowed Himself to BallsAs One who for a further LifeHad not a further Use—Invited Death—with bold attempt—But Death was Coy of HimAs Other Men, were Coy of Death—To Him—to live—was Doom—His Comrades, shifted like the FlakesWhen Gusts reverse the Snow—But He—was left alive BecauseOf Greediness to die—
