There is no frigate like a book

How the Hemlocks burn—How the Dun Brake is draped in CinderBy the Wizard Sun—How the old Steeples hand the ScarletTill the Ball is full—Have I the lip of the FlamingoThat I dare to tell?Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—Touching all the GrassWith a departing—Sapphire—feature—As a Duchess passed—How a small Dusk crawls on the VillageTill…

A dim capacity for wingsDegrades the dress I wear.A power of butterfly must beThe aptitude to fly,Meadows of majesty concedesAnd easy sweeps of sky.So I must baffle at the hintAnd cipher at the sign,And make much blunder, if at lastI take the clew divine.

And stop to feed itself at tanks;And then, prodigious, stepAround a pile of mountains,And, supercilious, peerIn shanties by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pareTo fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down the hillAnd neigh like Boanerges;Then, punctual as a star,Stop – docile and omnipotent –At…

Tapped soft upon the TownWith ‘I am great and cannot waitSo therefore let me in.’‘You’re soon,’ the Town replied,‘My Faces are asleep—But swear, and I will let you by,You will not wake them up.’The easy Guest compliedBut once within the TownThe transport of His CountenanceAwakened Maid and ManThe Neighbor in the PoolUpon His Hip elateMade…

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…

I hunted all the Sand—I caught the Dripping of a RockAnd bore it in my Hand—His Mighty Balls—in death were thick—But searching—I could seeA Vision on the RetinaOf Water—and of me—‘Twas not my blame—who sped too slow—‘Twas not his blame—who diedWhile I was reaching him—But ’twas—the fact that He was dead—

Were Pages where to readPathetic Histories—althoughHimself had not complained.Biography to All who passedOf Unobtrusive PainExcept for the italic FaceEndured, unhelped—unknown.

Did he find it supple?Shook my strong trust—Did it then—yield?Hurled my belief—But—did he shatter—it?Racked—with suspense—Not a nerve failed!Wrung me—with Anguish—But I never doubted him—‘Tho’ for what wrongHe did never say—Stabbed—while I suedHis sweet forgiveness—Jesus—it’s your little ‘John’!Don’t you know—me?

I took the smallest Room—At night, my little Lamp, and Book—And one Geranium—So stationed I could catch the MintThat never ceased to fall—And just my Basket—Let me think—I’m sure—That this was all—I never spoke—unless addressed—And then, ’twas brief and low—I could not bear to live—aloud—The Racket shamed me so—And if it had not been so…

Deformed Men—ponder Grace—Bright fires—the Blanketless—The Lost—Day’s face—The Blind—esteem it beEnough Estate—to see—The Captive—strangles new—For deeming—Beggars—play—To lack—enamor Thee—Tho’ the Divinity—Be onlyMe—

Great clouds like ushers leaning,Creation looking on.The flesh surrendered, cancelledThe bodiless begun;Two worlds, like audiences, disperseAnd leave the soul alone.

My Best—was gone to sleep—And Morn a new politeness took—And failed to wake them up—But called the others—clear—And passed their Curtains by—Sweet Morning—when I oversleep—Knock—Recollect—to Me—I looked at Sunrise—Once—And then I looked at Them—And wishfulness in me arose—For Circumstance the same—‘Twas such an Ample Peace—It could not hold a Sigh—‘Twas Sabbath—with the Bells divorced—‘Twas Sunset—all…