Glory is that bright tragic thing

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 —Re[f]ining these impatient OresWith Hammer, and with BlazeUntile the Designated LightRepudiate the Forge

Go above your Nerve—He can lean against the Grave,If he fear to swerve—That’s a steady posture—Never any bendHeld of those Brass arms—Best Giant made—If your Soul seesaw—Lift the Flesh door—The Poltroon wants Oxygen—Nothing more—

When the Preface perished from ConsciousnessThe Story, unrevealed –Had it been mine, to print!Had it been yours, to read!That it was not Our privilegeThe interdict of God –

Is like the child’s adversityWhose vista is a hill,Behind the hill is sorceryAnd everything unknown,But will the secret compensateFor climbing it alone?

Of ‘Potose,’ and the mines!Reverently, to the HungryOf your viands, and your wines!Cautious, hint to any CaptiveYou have passed enfranchised feet!Anecdotes of air in DungeonsHave sometimes proved deadly sweet!

I bring thee ProofThat till I lovedI never lived—Enough—That I shall love alway—I argue theeThat love is life—And life hath Immortality—This—dost thou doubt—Sweet—Then have INothing to showBut Calvary—