After a hundred years

As Blind Men learn the sun!To die of thirst—suspectingThat Brooks in Meadows run!To stay the homesick—homesick feetUpon a foreign shore—Haunted by native lands, the while—And blue—beloved air!This is the Sovereign Anguish!This—the signal woe!These are the patient ‘Laureates’Whose voices—trained—below—As cend in ceaseless Carol—Inaudible, indeed,To us—the duller scholarsOf the Mysterious Bard!

May be a common thing—Or only a divine.It is not of the BirdWho sings the same, unheard,As unto Crowd—The Fashion of the EarAttireth that it hearIn Dun, or fair—So whether it be Rune,Or whether it be noneIs of within.The ‘Tune is in the Tree—’The Skeptic—showeth me—‘No Sir! In Thee!’

And took Himself, for Pay,The solemn contract of a LifeWas ratified, this way—The Wealth might disappoint—Myself a poorer proveThan this great Purchaser suspect,The Daily Own—of LoveDepreciate the Vision—But till the Merchant buy—Still Fable—in the Isles of Spice—The subtle Cargoes—lie—At least—’tis Mutual—Risk—Some—found it—Mutual Gain—Sweet Debt of Life—Each Night to owe—Insolvent—every Noon—

But just a single smile—The smallest one upon your faceWill suit me just as well—The one that no one else would missIt shone so very small—I’m pleading at the ‘counter’—sir—Could you afford to sell—I’ve Diamonds—on my fingers—You know what Diamonds are?I’ve Rubies—live the Evening Blood—And Topaz—like the star!‘Twould be ‘a Bargain’ for a Jew!Say—may I…

Pathetic from the GrassA minor Nation celebratesIts unobtrusive Mass.No Ordinance be seenSo gradual the GraceA pensive Custom it becomesEnlarging Loneliness.Antiquest felt at NoonWhen August burning lowArise this spectral CanticleRepose to typifyRemit as yet no GraceNo Furrow on the GlowYet a Druidic DifferenceEnhances Nature now

So tell me who ’tis like—The very Brow—the stooping eyes—A fog for—Say—Whose Sake?The very Pattern of the Cheek—It varies—in the Chin—But—Ishmael—since we met—’tis long—And fashions—intervene—When Moon’s at full—’Tis Thou—I say—My lips just hold the name—When crescent—Thou art worn—I note—But—there—the Golden Same—And when—Some Night—Bold—slashing CloudsCut Thee away from Me—That’s easier—than the other filmThat glazes Holiday—