A Clock stopped Not the Mantel’s Geneva’s farthest skill Can’t put the puppet bowing That just now dangled still An awe came on the Trinket! The Figures hunched, with pain Then quivered out of

‘Tis true They shut me in the Cold But then Themselves were warm And could not know the feeling ’twas Forget it Lord of Them Let not my Witness hinder Them In Heavenly esteem

That short potential stir That each can make but once That Bustle so illustrious ‘Tis almost Consequence Is the eclat of Death Oh, thou unknown Renown That not a Beggar would accept Had he

Between the form of Life and Life The difference is as big As Liquor at the Lip between And Liquor in the Jug The latter excellent to keep But for ecstatic need The corkless

A Deed knocks first at Thought And then it knocks at Will That is the manufacturing spot And Will at Home and well It then goes out an Act Or is entombed so still

How destitute is he Whose Gold is firm Who finds it every time The small stale Sum When Love with but a Pence Will so display As is a disrespect To India.

The fascinating chill that music leaves Is Earth’s corroboration Of Ecstasy’s impediment ‘Tis Rapture’s germination In timid and tumultuous soil A fine estranging creature To something upper wooing us But not to our Creator

The Tint I cannot take is best The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar A Guinea at a sight The fine impalpable Array That swaggers on the eye Like Cleopatra’s

Like Rain it sounded till it curved And then I new ’twas Wind It walked as wet as any Wave But swept as dry as sand When it had pushed itself away To some

I noticed People disappeared When but a little child Supposed they visited remote Or settled Regions wild But did because they died A Fact withheld the little child

As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear As for the lost we grapple Tho’ all the rest are here In broken mathematics We estimate our prize Vast in its

I met a King this afternoon! He had not on a Crown indeed, A little Palmleaf Hat was all, And he was barefoot, I’m afraid! But sure I am he Ermine wore Beneath his

One and One are One Two be finished using Well enough for Schools But for Minor Choosing Life just or Death Or the Everlasting More would be too vast For the Soul’s Comprising

Two Travellers perishing in Snow The Forests as they froze Together heard them strengthening Each other with the words That Heaven if Heaven must contain What Either left behind And then the cheer too

He outstripped Time with but a Bout, He outstripped Stars and Sun And then, unjaded, challenged God In presence of the Throne. And He and He in mighty List Unto this present, run, The

Remorse is Memory awake Her Parties all astir A Presence of Departed Acts At window and at Door Its Past set down before the Soul And lighted with a Match Perusal to facilitate And

None can experience sting Who Bounty have not known The fact of Famine could not be Except for Fact of Corn Want is a meagre Art Acquired by Reverse The Poverty that was not

Two butterflies went out at Noon And waltzed upon a Farm Then stepped straight through the Firmament And rested, on a Beam And then together bore away Upon a shining Sea Though never yet,

Whose are the little beds, I asked Which in the valleys lie? Some shook their heads, and others smiled And no one made reply. Perhaps they did not hear, I said, I will inquire

A lane of Yellow led the eye Unto a Purple Wood Whose soft inhabitants to be Surpasses solitude If Bird the silence contradict Or flower presume to show In that low summer of the

I’ve none to tell me to but Thee So when Thou failest, nobody. It was a little tie It just held Two, nor those it held Since Somewhere thy sweet Face has spilled Beyond

Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver” Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest. Her heart is fit for home I a Sparrow build

We knew not that we were to live Nor when we are to die Our ignorance our cuirass is We wear Mortality As lightly as an Option Gown Till asked to take it off

Going to Him! Happy letter! Tell Him Tell Him the page I didn’t write Tell Him I only said the Syntax And left the Verb and the pronoun out Tell Him just how the

He preached upon “Breadth” till it argued him narrow The Broad are too broad to define And of “Truth” until it proclaimed him a Liar The Truth never flaunted a Sign Simplicity fled from

The hallowing of Pain Like hallowing of Heaven, Obtains at a corporeal cost The Summit is not given To Him who strives severe At middle of the Hill But He who has achieved the

Forever at His side to walk The smaller of the two! Brain of His Brain Blood of His Blood Two lives One Being now Forever of His fate to taste If grief the largest

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, The maddest noise that grows, The birds, they make it in the spring, At night’s delicious close. Between the March and April line That magical frontier Beyond which

Size circumscribes it has no room For petty furniture The Giant tolerates no Gnat For Ease of Gianture Repudiates it, all the more Because intrinsic size Ignores the possibility Of Calumnies or Flies.

To the stanch Dust We safe commit thee Tongue if it hath, Inviolate to thee Silence denote And Sanctity enforce thee Passenger of Infinity

On the World you colored Morning painted rose Idle his Vermillion Aimlessly crept the Glows Over Realms of Orchards I the Day before Conquered with the Robin Misery, how fair Till your wrinkled Finger

How fits his Umber Coat The Tailor of the Nut? Combined without a seam Like Raiment of a Dream Who spun the Auburn Cloth? Computed how the girth? The Chestnut aged grows In those

‘Tis so much joy! ‘Tis so much joy! If I should fail, what poverty! And yet, as poor as I, Have ventured all upon a throw! Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so This side the

Longing is like the Seed That wrestles in the Ground, Believing if it intercede It shall at length be found. The Hour, and the Clime Each Circumstance unknown, What Constancy must be achieved Before

One Blessing had I than the rest So larger to my Eyes That I stopped gauging satisfied For this enchanted size It was the limit of my Dream The focus of my Prayer A

Her face was in a bed of hair, Like flowers in a plot Her hand was whiter than the sperm That feeds the sacred light. Her tongue more tender than the tune That totters

The name of it is “Autumn” The hue of it is Blood An Artery upon the Hill A Vein along the Road Great Globules in the Alleys And Oh, the Shower of Stain When

She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turn Upon a Couch of flowers. Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill Yesterday, and Today, Her

This was in the White of the Year That was in the Green Drifts were as difficult then to think As Daisies now to be seen Looking back is best that is left Or

Mama never forgets her birds, Though in another tree She looks down just as often And just as tenderly As when her little mortal nest With cunning care she wove If either of her

The duties of the Wind are few, To cast the ships, at Sea, Establish March, the Floods escort, And usher Liberty. The pleasures of the Wind are broad, To dwell Extent among, Remain, or

If the foolish, call them “flowers” Need the wiser, tell? If the Savants “Classify” them It is just as well! Those who read the “Revelations” Must not criticize Those who read the same Edition

To try to speak, and miss the way And ask it of the Tears, Is Gratitude’s sweet poverty, The Tatters that he wears A better Coat if he possessed Would help him to conceal,

There’s the Battle of Burgoyne Over, every Day, By the Time that Man and Beast Put their work away “Sunset” sounds majestic But that solemn War Could you comprehend it You would chastened stare

The pungent atom in the Air Admits of no debate All that is named of Summer Days Relinquished our Estate For what Department of Delight As positive are we As Limit of Dominion Or

His mind of man, a secret makes I meet him with a start He carries a circumference In which I have no part Or even if I deem I do He otherwise may know

Than Heaven more remote, For Heaven is the root, But these the flitted seed. More flown indeed Than ones that never were, Or those that hide, and are. What madness, by their side, A

Three Weeks passed since I had seen Her Some Disease had vext ‘Twas with Text and Village Singing I beheld Her next And a Company our pleasure To discourse alone Gracious now to me

Escaping backward to perceive The Sea upon our place Escaping forward, to confront His glittering Embrace Retreating up, a Billow’s height Retreating blinded down Our undermining feet to meet Instructs to the Divine.

Why should we hurry why indeed? When every way we fly We are molested equally By immortality. No respite from the inference That this which is begun, Though where its labors lie A bland