Pain has an element of blank;

I feel the old Degree—I hear him ask the servantFor such an one—as me—I take a flower—as I go—My face to justify—He never saw me—in this life—I might surprise his eye!I cross the Hall with mingled steps—I—silent—pass the door—I look on all this world contains—Just his face—nothing more!We talk in careless—and it toss—A kind of…

The Violet—is Noon—The Yellow—Day—is falling—And after that—is none—But Miles of Sparks—at Evening—Reveal the Width that burned—The Territory Argent—thatNever yet—consumed—

Are so for that most fatal causeIn Nature – they are full –

That what we cherished, so unknownTo her desire seemed.So satisfied to goWhere none of us should be,Immediately, that anguish stoopedAlmost to jealousy.

Who Bounty—have not known—The fact of Famine—could not beExcept for Fact of Corn—Want—is a meagre ArtAcquired by Reverse—The Poverty that was not Wealth—Cannot be Indigence.

Supporting what We seeUnto the Scene that We do not—Too slender for the eyeIt bears the Soul as boldAs it were rocked in SteelWith Arms of Steel at either side—It joins—behind the VeilTo what, could We presumeThe Bridge would cease to beTo Our far, vacillating FeetA first Necessity.

Lightning—lets awayPower to perceive His ProcessWith Vitality.Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—Stone of stolid Boy—Nor a Sportsman’s Peradventure—Who mine Enemy?Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—All my Mansion torn—Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—Furthest shining—done—Yet was not the foe—of any—Not the smallest BirdIn the nearest Orchard dwellingBe of Me—afraid.Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.Often as I dieIts beloved RecognitionHolds a Sun…

Three times, ‘t is said, a sinking manComes up to face the skies,And then declines foreverTo that abhorred abodeWhere hope and he part company,—For he is grasped of God.The Maker’s cordial visage,However good to see,Is shunned, we must admit it,Like an adversity.

If I can ease one life the aching,Or cool one pain,Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again,I shall not live in vain.

Criterion—be small—It is the Ultimate of Talk—The Impotence to Tell—

She each year leads her daisies back,Recording briefly, ‘Lost.’But when the south wind stirs the poolsAnd struggles in the lanes,Her heart misgives her for her vow,And she pours soft refrainsInto the lap of adamant,And spices, and the dew,That stiffens quietly to quartzUpon her amber shoe.

I’ll begin to SewWhen the Birds begin to whistle—Better Stitches—so—These were bent—my sight got crooked—When my mind—is plainI’ll do seams—a Queen’s endeavorWould not blush to own—Hems—too fine for Lady’s tracingTo the sightless Knot—Tucks—of dainty interspersion—Like a dotted Dot—Leave my Needle in the furrow—Where I put it down—I can make the zigzag stitchesStraight—when I am strong—Till…

And Butterflies—desire—To gain the Purple DemocratThe Humming Bird—aspire—And Whatsoever Insect pass—A Honey bear awayProportioned to his several dearthAnd her—capacity—Her face be rounder than the MoonAnd ruddier than the GownOr Orchis in the Pasture—Or Rhododendron—worn—She doth not wait for June—Before the World be Green—Her sturdy little CountenanceAgainst the Wind—be seen—Contending with the Grass—Near Kinsman to Herself—For…

As Players at the KeysBefore they drop full Music on—He stuns you by degrees—Prepares your brittle NatureFor the Ethereal BlowBy fainter Hammers—further heard—Then nearer—Then so slowYour Breath has time to straighten—Your Brain—to bubble Cool—Deals—One—imperial&mda sh;Thunderbolt—That scalps your naked Soul—When Winds take Forests in the Paws—The Universe—is still—

Across a barn or through a rutDebates if it will go.A narrow wind complains all dayHow some one treated him;Nature, like us, is sometimes caughtWithout her diadem.

Tis true the drought is destituteBut, then, I had the dew!The Caspian has its realms of sand,Its other realm of sea.Without this sterile perquisiteNo Caspian could be.

How ignorant I had beenOf pretty ways of Covenant—How awkward at the HymnRound our new Fireside—but for this—This pattern—of the Way—Whose Memory drowns me, like the DipOf a Celestial Sea—What Mornings in our Garden—guessed—What Bees—for us—to hum—With only Birds to interruptThe Ripple of our Theme—And Task for Both—When Play be done—Your Problem—of the Brain—And mine—some…

I don’t care for pouting skies!If the Butterfly delayCan I, therefore, stay away?If the Coward Bumble BeeIn his chimney corner stay,I, must resoluter be!Who’ll apologize for me?Dear, Old fashioned, little flower!Eden is old fashioned, too!Birds are antiquated fellows!Heaven does not change her blue.Nor will I, the little Heart’s Ease—Ever be induced to do!