‘They have not chosen me,’ he said,

I looked for you before.Put down your hat—You must have walked—How out of breath you are!Dear March, how are you?And the rest?Did you leave Nature well?Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,I have so much to tell!I got your letter, and the bird’s;The maples never knewThat you were coming,—I declare,How red their faces grew!But, March,…

A smile too few—a word too muchAnd far from Heaven as the Rest—The Soul so close on Paradise—What if the Bird from journey far—Confused by Sweets—as Mortals—are—Forget the secret of His wingAnd perish—but a Bough between—Oh, Groping feet—Oh Phantom Queen!

And in the Handsome SkiesI shall not feel at Home—I know—I don’t like Paradise—Because it’s Sunday—all the time—And Recess—never comes—And Eden’ll be so lonesomeBright Wednesday Afternoons—If God could make a visit—Or ever took a Nap—So not to see us—but they sayHimself—a TelescopePerennial beholds us—Myself would run awayFrom Him—and Holy Ghost—and All—But there’s the ‘Judgement Day’!

Red — is the Fire’s common tint —But when the vivid OreHas vanquished Flame’s conditions,It quivers from the ForgeWithout a color, but the lightOf unanointed Blaze.Least Village has its BlacksmithWhose Anvil’s even ringStands symbol for the finer ForgeThat soundless tugs — within —Re[f]ining these impatient OresWith Hammer, and with BlazeUntile the Designated LightRepudiate the Forge

Since I was wed—to Him—A modesty befits the soulThat bears another’s—name—A doubt—if it be fair—indeed—To wear that perfect—pearl—The Man—upon the Woman—binds—To clasp her soul—for all—A prayer, that it more angel—prove—A whiter Gift—within—To that munificence, that chose—So unadorned—a Queen—A Gratitude—that such be true—It had esteemed the Dream—Too beautiful—for Shape to prove—Or posture—to redeem!

For Earths, grow thick asBerries, in my native town —My Basked holds — just — Firmaments —Those — dangle easy — on my arm,But smaller bundles — Cram.