The Hills in Purple syllables

Death, the only OneYou cannot find out all aboutIn his ‘native town.’Nobody know ‘his Father’—Never was a Boy—Hadn’t any playmates,Or ‘Early history’—Industrious! Laconic!Punctual! Sedate!Bold as a Brigand!Stiller than a Fleet!Builds, like a Bird, too!Christ robs the Nest—Robin after RobinSmuggled to Rest!

There’s Triumph in the RoomWhen that Old Imperator—Death—By Faith

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…

And everything that has an InnCloses the shutter and goes in –How pompous the Wind must feel NoonsStepping to incorporeal TunesCorrecting errors of the skyAnd clarifying sceneryHow mighty the Wind must feel MornsEncamping on a thousand dawnsEspousing each and spurning allThen soaring to his Temple Tall –

To see if it was there—I held my spirit to the Glass,To prove it possibler—I turned my Being round and roundAnd paused at every poundTo ask the Owner’s name—For doubt, that I should know the Sound—I judged my features—jarred my hair—I pushed my dimples by, and waited—If they—twinkled back—Conviction might, of me—I told myself, ‘Take…

But, when Travellers tellHow those old—phlegmatic mountainsUsually so still—Bear within—appalling Ordnance,Fire, and smoke, and gun,Taking Villages for breakfast,And appalling Men—If the stillness is VolcanicIn the human faceWhen upon a pain TitanicFeatures keep their place—If at length the smouldering anguishWill not overcome—And the palpitating VineyardIn the dust, be thrown?If some loving Antiquary,On Resumption Morn,Will not cry…