Water makes many Beds

Evening—the Tissue Door—Morning—the East compelling the sillTill all the World is ajar—

Until there crept uponA Chill—like frost upon a Glass—Till all the scene—be gone.The Forehead copied Stone—The Fingers grew too coldTo ache—and like a Skater’s Brook—The busy eyes—congealed—It straightened—that was all—It crowded Cold to Cold—It multiplied indifference—As Pride were all it could—And even when with Cords—‘Twas lowered, like a Weight—It made no Signal, nor demurred,But dropped…

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

A full, and perfect time—The Summer closed upon itselfIn Consummated Bloom—The Corn, her furthest kernel filledBefore the coming Flail—When These—leaned unto Perfectness—Through Haze of Burial—

And leaves us in another placeWhose statement is not found –Returns us not, but after timeWe soberly descendA little newer for the termUpon Enchanted Ground –

The Love of Thee—a Prism be—Excelling Violet—I see thee better for the YearsThat hunch themselves between—The Miner’s Lamp—sufficient be—To nullify the Mine—And in the Grave—I see Thee best—Its little Panels beAglow—All ruddy—with the LightI held so high, for Thee—What need of Day—To Those whose Dark—hath so—surpassing Sun—It deem it be—Continually—At the Meridian?