I have no life but this,

For his Pleiad’s Face—When the lone British LadyForsakes the Arctic RaceWhen to his Covenant NeedleThe Sailor doubting turns—It will be amply earlyTo ask what treason means.

The Persons of prognosticationAre coming now –We try to show becoming firmness –But pompous JoyBetrays us, as his first BetrothalBetrays a Boy.

And what had they to do with usAnd when portentous toldWith inference appallingBy Childhood fortifiedWe thought, at least they are no worseThan they have been described.Who are ‘the Father and the Son’Did we demand Today‘The Father and the Son’ himselfWould doubtless specify –But had they the felicityWhen we desired to know.We better Friends had been,…

Is the unknown peninsula.Beauty is nature’s fact.But witness for her land,And witness for her sea,The cricket is her utmostOf elegy to me.

Paid after they have ceased to workIn Infamy or Urn –

Just a paltry One—All forsook, for just a Stranger’sNew Accompanying—Grace of Wealth, and Grace of StationLess accounted thanAn unknown Esteem possessing—Estimate—Who can—Home effaced—Her faces dwindled—Nature—altered small—Sun—if shone—or Storm—if shattered—Overlooked I all—Dropped—my fate—a timid Pebble—In thy bolder Sea—Prove—me—Sweet—if I regret it—Prove Myself—of Thee—