Low at my problem bending
Low at my problem bending, Another problem comes Larger than mine Serener Involving statelier sums. I check my busy pencil, My figures file away. Wherefore, my baffled fingers They perplexity?
We pray to Heaven
We pray to Heaven We prate of Heaven Relate when Neighbors die At what o’clock to heaven they fled Who saw them Wherefore fly? Is Heaven a Place a Sky a Tree? Location’s narrow
Quite empty, quite at rest
Quite empty, quite at rest, The Robin locks her Nest, and tries her Wings. She does not know a Route But puts her Craft about For rumored Springs She does not ask for Noon
Trudging to Eden, looking backward
Trudging to Eden, looking backward, I met Somebody’s little Boy Asked him his name He lisped me “Trotwood” Lady, did He belong to thee? Would it comfort to know I met him And that
Upon Concluded Lives
Upon Concluded Lives There’s nothing cooler falls Than Life’s sweet Calculations The mixing Bells and Palls Make Lacerating Tune To Ears the Dying Side ‘Tis Coronal and Funeral Saluting in the Road
'Twas warm at first like Us
‘Twas warm at first like Us Until there crept upon A Chill like frost upon a Glass Till all the scene be gone. The Forehead copied Stone The Fingers grew too cold To ache
To my quick ear the Leaves conferred
To my quick ear the Leaves conferred The Bushes they were Bells I could not find a Privacy From Nature’s sentinels In Cave if I presumed to hide The Walls begun to tell Creation
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago And now she turns Her perfect Face Upon the World below Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde Her Cheek a Beryl
I went to thank Her
I went to thank Her But She Slept Her Bed a funneled Stone With Nosegays at the Head and Foot That Travellers had thrown Who went to thank Her But She Slept ‘Twas Short
The Products of my Farm are these
The Products of my Farm are these Sufficient for my Own And here and there a Benefit Unto a Neighbor’s Bin. With Us, ’tis Harvest all the Year For when the Frosts begin We
The World feels Dusty
The World feels Dusty When We stop to Die We want the Dew then Honors taste dry Flags vex a Dying face But the least Fan Stirred by a friend’s Hand Cools like the
I never told the buried gold
I never told the buried gold Upon the hill that lies I saw the sun his plunder done Crouch low to guard his prize. He stood as near As stood you here A pace
More Life went out when He went
More Life went out when He went Than Ordinary Breath Lit with a finer Phosphor Requiring in the Quench A Power of Renowned Cold, The Climate of the Grave A Temperature just adequate So
The Loneliness One dare not sound
The Loneliness One dare not sound And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size The Loneliness whose worst alarm Is lest itself should see And perish from
I made slow Riches but my Gain
I made slow Riches but my Gain Was steady as the Sun And every Night, it numbered more Than the preceding One All Days, I did not earn the same But my perceiveless Gain