Warm in her Hand these accents lie

The Soul to entertainWith Silence as a CompanyAnd Festival maintainIs an unfurnished CircumstancePossession is to OneAs an Estate perpetualOr a reduceless Mine.

What rosy faceHas lost a blush today?I found her—’pleiad’—in the woodsAnd bore her safe away.Robins, in the traditionDid cover such with leaves,But which the cheek—And which the pallMy scrutiny deceives.

This—to Heaven divine Has gone—Had You earlier blundered inPossibly, e’en You had seenAn Eternity—put on—Now—to ring a Door beyondIs the utmost of Your Hand—To the Skies—apologize—Nearer to Your CourtesiesThan this Sufferer polite—Dressed to meet You—See—in White!

As Beggars revel at a feastBy savory Fancy spread—As brooks in deserts babble sweetOn ear too far for the delight,Heaven beguiles the tired.As that same watcher, when the EastOpens the lid of AmethystAnd lets the morning go—That Beggar, when an honored Guest,Those thirsty lips to flagons pressed,Heaven to us, if true.

The Violet—is Noon—The Yellow—Day—is falling—And after that—is none—But Miles of Sparks—at Evening—Reveal the Width that burned—The Territory Argent—thatNever yet—consumed—

And put it in the Drawer—Till it an Antique fashion shows—Like Costumes Grandsires wore.