The grave my little cottage is,

And so I trouble thee.I am the one forgot thee so—Dost thou remember me?Nor, for myself, I came so far—That were the little load—I brought thee the imperial HeartI had not strength to hold—The Heart I carried in my own—Till mine too heavy grew—Yet—strangest—heavier since it went—Is it too large for you?

Three times—He would not go—But strove to stir the lifeless FanThe Waters—strove to stay.Three Times—the Billows tossed me up—Then caught me—like a Ball—Then made Blue faces in my face—And pushed away a sailThat crawled Leagues off—I liked to see—For thinking—while I die—How pleasant to behold a ThingWhere Human faces—be—The Waves grew sleepy—Breath—did not—The Winds—like Children—lulled—Then…

Is metre—nay—’tis melody—And spiciest at fading—indicate—A Habit—of a Laureate—

To remember how sad I amWould be an easy adversityBut the recollecting of BloomKeeps making November difficultTill I who was almost boldLose my way like a little ChildAnd perish of the cold.

The scantest Heart extantWill hold you till your privilegeOf Finiteness—be spent—But He whose loss procures youSuch Destitution thatYour Life too abject for itselfThenceforward imitate—Until—Resemblance perfect—Yourself, for His pursuitDelight of Nature—abdicate—Exhibit Love—somewhat—

A flower’s unobtrusive faceTo punctuate the wall,A fan, perhaps, a friend’s regret,And certainly that oneNo color in the rainbowPerceives when you are gone.