No rack can torture me,

Nor can you tell me—Saints, with ravished slate and pencilSolve our April Day!Sweeter than a vanished frolicFrom a vanished green!Swifter than the hoofs of HorsemenRound a Ledge of dream!Modest, let us walk among itWith our faces veiled—As they say polite ArchangelsDo in meeting God!Not for me—to prate about it!Not for you—to sayTo some fashionable Lady‘Charming…

Through clearing and through wood—Banditti often passed usUpon the lonely road.The wolf came peering curious—The owl looked puzzled down—The serpent’s satin figureGlid stealthily along—The tempests touched our garments—The lightning’s poinards gleamed—Fierce from the Crag above usThe hungry Vulture screamed—The satyr’s fingers beckoned—The valley murmured ‘Come’—These were the mates—This was the roadThose children fluttered home.

That toddled down the bay!‘Twas such a gallant—gallant seaThat beckoned it away!‘Twas such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the Coast—Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!

But with a tinge of that—A Compound manner,As a SodEspoused a Violet,That chiefer to the SkiesThan to himself, allied,Dwelt hesitating, half of Dust,And half of Day, the Bride.

Be rendered by the Bee—Herself, without a ParliamentApology for Me.

Without the Loneliness—I’m so accustomed to my Fate—Perhaps the Other—Peace—Would interrupt the Dark—And crowd the little Room—Too scant—by Cubits—to containThe Sacrament—of Him—I am not used to Hope—It might intrude upon—Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place—Ordained to Suffering—It might be easierTo fail—with Land in Sight—Than gain—My Blue Peninsula—To perish—of Delight—