And workmen finished, one by one,
Their seam the day upon.
The low grass loaded with the dew,
The twilight stood as strangers do
With hat in hand, polite and new,
To stay as if, or go.
A vastness, as a neighbor, came,–
A wisdom without face or name,
A peace, as hemispheres at home,–
And so the night became.
Sufficient Fame—To perish in Her Hand!
This Morning’s finest syllablePresumptuous Evening said –
First—Poets—Then the Sun—Then Summer—Then the Heaven of God—And then—the List is done—But, looking back—the First so seemsTo Comprehend the Whole—The Others look a needless Show—So I write—Poets—All—Their Summer—lasts a Solid Year—They can afford a SunThe East—would deem extravagant—And if the Further Heaven—Be Beautiful as they prepareFor Those who worship Them—It is too difficult a Grace—To…
To push, and pierce, besides—That if the Flesh resist the Heft—The puncture—coolly tries—That not a pore be overlookedOf all this Compound Frame—As manifold for Anguish—As Species—be—for name—
That nearer, every Day,Kept narrowing its boiling WheelUntil the AgonyToyed coolly with the final inchOf your delirious Hem—And you dropt, lost,When something broke—And let you from a Dream—As if a Goblin with a Gauge—Kept measuring the Hours—Until you felt your SecondWeigh, helpless, in his Paws—And not a Sinew—stirred—could help,And sense was setting numb—When God—remembered—and the…
Warm this inclement EarWith the encomium it earnedSince it was gathered here –Invest this alabaster ZestIn the Delights of Dust –Remitted – since it flitted itIn recusance august.
