A Word dropped careless on a Page

That arise and set about Us—Other TragedyPerish in the Recitation—This—the best enactWhen the Audience is scatteredAnd the Boxes shut—‘Hamlet’ to Himself were Hamlet—Had not Shakespeare wrote—Though the ‘Romeo’ left no RecordOf his Juliet,It were infinite enactedIn the Human Heart—Only Theatre recordedOwner cannot shut—

Exhilarates the ManWho tastes it; PossibilityIs flavorless—CombineA Chance’s faintest TinctureAnd in the former DramEnchantment makes ingredientAs certainly as Doom—

God does it—every Day—Creation—but the GambolOf His Authority—It’s easy to efface it—The thrifty DeityCould scarce afford EternityTo Spontaneity—The Perished Patterns murmur—But His Perturbless PlanProceed—inserting Here—a Sun—There—leaving out a Man—

And revery.The revery alone will do,If bees are few.

Somewhere—in Silence—He has hid his rare lifeFrom our gross eyes.‘Tis an instant’s play.‘Tis a fond Ambush—Just to make BlissEarn her own surprise!But—should the playProve piercing earnest—Should the glee—glaze—In Death’s—stiff—stare—Wou ld not the funLook too expensive!Would not the jest—Have crawled too far!

But in this black ReceptacleCan be no Bode of Dawn