The Spider as an Artist

And Life is over there–Behind the ShelfThe Sexton keeps the Key to–Putting upOur Life–His Porcelain–Like a Cup–Discarded of the Housewife–Quaint–or Broke–A newer Sevres pleases–Old Ones crack–I could not die–with You–For One must waitTo shut the Other’s Gaze down–You–could not–And I–could I stand byAnd see You–freeze–Without my Right of Frost–Death’s privilege?Nor could I rise–with You–Because Your…

Sometimes, I think that NoonIs but a symbol of the Place—And when again, at Dawn,A mighty look runs round the WorldAnd settles in the Hills—An Awe if it should be like thatUpon the Ignorance steals—The Orchard, when the Sun is on—The Triumph of the BirdsWhen they together Victory make—Some Carnivals of Clouds—The Rapture of a…

With different Delight—Because—when next it burns abroadThey doubt to witness it—The Man—to die—tomorrow—Harks for the Meadow Bird—Because its Music stirs the AxeThat clamors for his head—Joyful—to whom the SunrisePrecedes Enamored—Day—Joyful—for whom the Meadow BirdHas ought but Elegy!

In this cup of mine.Sip old Frankfort airFrom my brown Cigar.

No other—was denied—I offered Being—for it—The Mighty Merchant sneered—Brazil? He twirled a Button—Without a glance my way—‘But—Madam—is there nothing else—That We can show—Today?’

Fond, and late—We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave—Of ours, none affair—We handled Destinies, as cool—As we—Disposers—be—And God, a Quiet PartyTo our Authority—But fondest, dwelt upon OurselfAs we eventual—be—When Girls to Women, softly raisedWe—occupy—Degree—We parted with a contractTo cherish, and to writeBut Heaven made both, impossibleBefore another night.