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These are the days that Reindeer love And pranks the Northern star, This is the Sun’s objective And Finland of the year.
Follow wise Orion Till you lose your eye, Dazzlingly decamping He is just as high.
For Death, — or rather For the things ’t will buy, These put away Life’s opportunity. The things that Death will buy Are Room, — Escape From Circumstances, And a Name. How gifts of Life With Death’s gifts will compare, We know not — For the rates stop Here.
Dropped into the Ether Acre! Wearing the sod gown — Bonnet of Everlasting laces — Brooch frozen on! Horses of blonde — And coach of silver, Baggage a strapped Pearl! Journey of Down And whip of Diamond — Riding to meet the Earl!
Too cold is this To warm with sun, Too stiff to bended be, To joint this agate were a feat Outstaring masonry. How went the agile kernel out — Contusion of the husk, Nor rip, nor wrinkle indicate, — But just an Asterisk.
I watched her face to see which way She took the awful news, Whether she died before she heard — Or in protracted bruise Remained a few short years with us, Each heavier than the last — A further afternoon to fail, As Flower at fall of Frost.
Today or this noon She dwelt so close, I almost touched her; Tonight she lies Past neighborhood — And bough and steeple — Now past surmise.
I see thee better in the dark, I do not need a light. The love of thee a prism be Excelling violet. I see thee better for the years That hunch themselves between, The miner’s lamp sufficient be To nullify the mine. And in the grave I see thee best — Its little panels be A-glow, all ruddy with the light I held so high for thee! What need of day to those whose dark Hath so surpassing sun, It seem it be continually At the meridian?
Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes, Larger than mine, serener, Involving statelier sums; I check my busy pencil, My ciphers slip away, Wherefore, my baffled fingers, Time Eternity?
The feet of people walking home In gayer sandals go, The Crocus, till she rises, The Vassal of the Snow — The lips at Hallelujah! Long years of practice bore, Till bye and bye these Bargemen Walked singing on the shore. Pearls are the Diver’s farthings Extorted from the Sea, Pinions the Seraph’s wagon, Pedestrians once, as we — Night is the morning’s canvas, Larceny, legacy, Death but our rapt attention To immortality. My figures fail to tell me How far the village lies, Whose Peasants are the angels, Whose Cantons dot the skies, My Classics veil their faces, My Faith that dark adores, Which
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We should not mind so small a flower, Except it quiet bring Our little garden that we lost Back to the lawn again. So spicy her Carnations red, So drunken reel her Bees, So silver steal a hundred Flutes From out a hundred trees, That whoso sees this little flower, By faith may clear behold The Bobolinks around the throne, And Dandelions gold.
To the staunch Dust we safe commit thee; Tongue if it hath, inviolate to thee — Silence denote and Sanctity enforce thee, Passenger of Infinity!
Immured in Heaven! What a Cell! Let every bondage be, Thou Sweetest of the Universe, Like that which ravished thee!
I’m thinking of that other morn, When Cerements let go, And Creatures clad in Victory Go up in two by two!
The overtakelessness of those Who have accomplished Death, Majestic is to me beyond The majesties of Earth. The soul her “not at Home” Inscribes upon the flesh, And takes her fair aerial gait Beyond the hope of touch.
The Look of Thee, what is it like? Hast thou a hand or foot, Or mansion of Identity, And what is thy Pursuit? Thy fellows, — are they Realms or Themes? Hast thou Delight or Fear Or Longing, — and is that for us Or values more severe? Let change transfuse all other traits, Enact all other blame, But deign this least certificate — That thou shalt be the same.
The Devil, had he fidelity, Would be the finest friend — Because he has ability, But Devils cannot mend. Perfidy is the virtue That would he but resign, — The Devil, so amended, Were durably divine.
“Remember me,” implored the Thief — Oh magnanimity! “My Visitor in Paradise I give thee Guaranty.” That courtesy will fair remain, When the delight is dust, With which we cite this mightiest case Of compensated Trust. Of All, we are allowed to hope, But Affidavit stands That this was due, where some, we fear, Are unexpected friends.
To this apartment deep No ribaldry may creep; Untroubled this abode By any man but God.
“Sown in dishonor?” Ah! Indeed! May this dishonor be? If I were half so fine myself, I’d notice nobody! “Sown in corruption?” By no means! Apostle is askew; Corinthians 1:15, narrates A circumstance or two!
Who is it seeks my pillow nights? With plain inspecting face, “Did you, or did you not?” to ask, ’T is Conscience, childhood’s nurse. With martial hand she strokes the hair Upon my wincing head, “All rogues shall have their part in”— What — The Phosphorus of God.
His Cheek is his Biographer — As long as he can blush, Perdition is Opprobrium; Past that, he sins in peace. Thief
“Heavenly Father,” take to thee The supreme iniquity, Fashioned by thy candid hand In a moment contraband. Though to trust us seem to us More respectful — “we are dust.” We apologize to Thee For Thine own Duplicity.
The sweets of Pillage can be known To no one but the Thief, Compassion for Integrity Is his divinest Grief.
The Bible is an antique volume Written by faded men, At the suggestion of Holy Spectres — Subjects — Bethlehem — Eden — the ancient Homestead — Satan — the Brigadier, Judas — the great Defaulter, David — the Troubadour. Sin — a distinguished Precipice Others must resist, Boys that “believe” Are very lonesome — Other boys are “lost.” Had but the tale a warbling Teller All the boys would come — Orpheus’ sermon captivated, It did not condemn.
Dust is the only secret, Death the only one You cannot find out all about In his native town: Nobody knew his father, Never was a boy, Hadn’t any playmates Or early history. Industrious, laconic, Punctual, sedate, Bolder than a Brigand, Swifter than a Fleet, Builds like a bird too, Christ robs the nest — Robin after robin Smuggled to rest!
Ambition cannot find him, Affection doesn’t know How many leagues of Nowhere Lie between them now. Yesterday undistinguished — Eminent to-day, For our mutual honor — Immortality!
Eden is that old-fashioned House We dwell in every day, Without suspecting our abode Until we drive away. How fair, on looking back, the Day We sauntered from the door, Unconscious our returning Discover it no more.
Candor, my tepid Friend, Come not to play with me! The Myrrhs and Mochas of the Mind Are its Iniquity.
Speech is a symptom of affection, And Silence one, The perfectest communication Is heard of none — Exists and its endorsement Is had within — Behold! said the Apostle, Yet had not seen.
Who were “the Father and the Son” — We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us — And when portentous told With inference appalling, By Childhood fortified, We thought, “at least they are no worse Than they have been described.” Who are “the Father and the Son” — Did we demand today, “The Father and the Son” himself Would doubtless specify, But had they the felicity When we desired to know, We better Friends had been, perhaps, Than time ensue to be. We start, to learn that we believe But once, entirely — Belief, it does not fit so well When altered frequently. We blush, that
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That Love is all there is, Is all we know of Love; It is enough, the freight should be Proportioned to the groove.
The Sea said “Come” to the Brook, The Brook said “Let me grow!” The Sea said “Then you will be a Sea — I want a brook, Come now!”
Love reckons by itself alone, “As large as I” relate the Sun To one who never felt it blaze, Itself is all the like it has.
The inundation of the Spring Submerges every soul, It sweeps the tenement away But leaves the water whole. In which the Soul, at first alarmed, Seeks furtive for its shore, But acclimated, gropes no more For that Peninsular.
Distance is not the realm of Fox, Nor by relay as Bird; Abated, Distance is until Thyself, Beloved!
To tell the beauty would decrease, To state the Spell demean, There is a syllableless sea Of which it is the sign. My will endeavours for its word And fails, but entertains A rapture as of legacies — Of introspective mines.
To love thee, year by year, May less appear Than sacrifice and cease. However, Dear, Forever might be short I thought, to show, And so I pieced it with a flower now.
I showed her heights she never saw — “Would’st climb?” I said, She said “Not so” — “With me?” I said, “With me?” I showed her secrets Morning’s nest, The rope that Nights were put across — And now, “Would’st have me for a Guest?” She could not find her yes — And then, I brake my life, and Lo! A light for her, did solemn glow, The larger, as her face withdrew — And could she, further, “No?”
On my volcano grows the grass, — A meditative spot, An area for a bird to choose Would be the general thought. How red the fire reeks below, How insecure the sod — Did I disclose, would populate With awe my solitude.
If I could tell how glad I was, I should not be so glad, But when I cannot make the Force Nor mould it into word, I know it is a sign That new Dilemma be From mathematics further off, Than from Eternity.
Her Grace is all she has, And that, so vast displays, One Art, to recognize, must be, Another Art to praise.
To see her is a picture, To hear her is a tune, To know her an intemperance As innocent as June; By which to be undone Is dearer than Redemption — Which never to receive, Makes mockery of melody It might have been to live.
So set its sun in thee, What day is dark to me — What distance far, So I the ships may see That touch how seldomly Thy shore?
Had this one day not been, Or could it cease to be — How smitten, how superfluous Were every other day! Lest Love should value less What Loss would value more, Had it the stricken privilege — It cherishes before.
That she forgot me was the least, I felt it second pain, That I was worthy to forget Was most I thought upon. Faithful, was all that I could boast, But Constancy became, To her, by her innominate, A something like a shame.
A little overflowing word That any hearing had inferred For ardor or for tears, Though generations pass away, Traditions ripen and decay, As eloquent appears.
Safe Despair it is that raves, Agony is frugal, Puts itself severe away For its own perusal. Garrisoned no Soul can be In the front of Trouble, Love is one, not aggregate, Nor is Dying double.
The Face we choose to miss, Be it but for a day — As absent as a hundred years When it has rode away.
Of so divine a loss We enter but the gain, Indemnity for loneliness That such a bliss has been.
