To that odd fork in Being’s road,
Eternity by term.
Our pace took sudden awe,
Our feet reluctant led.
Before were cities, but between,
The forest of the dead.
Retreat was out of hope,–
Behind, a sealed route,
Eternity’s white flag before,
And God at every gate.
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The nuts are getting brown—The berry’s cheek is plumper—The Rose is out of town.The Maple wears a gayer scarf—The field a scarlet gown—Lest I should be old fashionedI’ll put a trinket on.
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep
By strech of limb or stir of lid, —An independent one.Was ever idleness like this?Within a hut of stoneTo bask the centuries awayNor once look up for noon?
I thought the Train would never come –
I don’t believe a peevish BirdSo whimpered for the Spring –I taught my Heart a hundred timesPrecisely what to say –Provoking Lover, when you cameIts Treatise flew awayTo hide my strategy too lateTo wiser be too soon –For miseries so halcyonThe happiness atone –
A shady friend for torrid days
Than one of higher temperatureFor frigid hour of mind.The vane a little to the eastScares muslin souls away;If broadcloth breasts are firmerThan those of organdy,Who is to blame? The weaver?Ah! the bewildering thread!The tapestries of paradise!So notelessly are made!
My life closed twice before its close–
If Immortality unveilA third event to meSo huge, so hopeless to conceiveAs these that twice befell.Parting is all we know of heaven,And all we need of hell.
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But I was not a ‘Diver’—Her brow is fit for thronesBut I have not a crest.Her heart is fit for home—I—a Sparrow—build thereSweet of twigs and twineMy perennial nest.