All but Death, can be Adjusted Dynasties repaired Systems settled in their Sockets Citadels dissolved Wastes of Lives resown with Colors By Succeeding Springs Death unto itself Exception Is exempt from Change

Your thoughts don’t have words every day They come a single time Like signal esoteric sips Of the communion Wine Which while you taste so native seems So easy so to be You cannot

Hope is a strange invention A Patent of the Heart In unremitting action Yet never wearing out Of this electric Adjunct Not anything is known But its unique momentum Embellish all we own

No ladder needs the bird but skies To situate its wings, Nor any leader’s grim baton Arraigns it as it sings. The implements of bliss are few As Jesus says of Him, “Come unto

There is a pain so utter It swallows substance up Then covers the Abyss with Trance So Memory can step Around across upon it As one within a Swoon Goes safely where an open

The Brain, within its Groove Runs evenly and true But let a Splinter swerve ‘Twere easier for You To put a Current back When Floods have slit the Hills And scooped a Turnpike for

The Missing All prevented Me From missing minor Things. If nothing larger than a World’s Departure from a Hinge Or Sun’s extinction, be observed ‘Twas not so large that I Could lift my Forehead

At last, to be identified! At last, the lamps upon thy side The rest of Life to see! Past Midnight! Past the Morning Star! Past Sunrise! Ah, What leagues there were Between our feet,

‘Twas such a little little boat That toddled down the bay! ‘Twas such a gallant gallant sea That beckoned it away! ‘Twas such a greedy, greedy wave That licked it from the Coast Nor

Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower, But I could never sell If you would like to borrow, Until the Daffodil Unties her yellow Bonnet Beneath the village door, Until the Bees, from Clover

I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink; Crackling with fever, they Essay, I turn my brimming eyes away, And come next hour to look.

Trust in the Unexpected By this was William Kidd Persuaded of the Buried Gold As One had testified Through this the old Philosopher His Talismanic Stone Discerned still withholden To effort undivine ‘Twas this

There is a morn by men unseen Whose maids upon remoter green Keep their Seraphic May And all day long, with dance and game, And gambol I may never name Employ their holiday. Here

The Way I read a Letter’s this ‘Tis first I lock the Door And push it with my fingers next For transport it be sure And then I go the furthest off To counteract

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

An honest Tear Is durabler than Bronze This Cenotaph May each that dies Reared by itself No Deputy suffice Gratitude bears When Obelisk decays

We thirst at first ’tis Nature’s Act And later when we die A little Water supplicate Of fingers going by It intimates the finer want Whose adequate supply Is that Great Water in the

Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight Affords a Bliss like Murder Omnipotent Acute We will not drop the Dirk Because We love the Wound The Dirk Commemorate Itself Remind Us that we died.

I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you Nobody Too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise you know! How dreary to be Somebody! How public like a Frog To tell one’s

We dream it is good we are dreaming It would hurt us were we awake But since it is playing kill us, And we are playing shriek What harm? Men die externally It is

Just so Jesus raps He doesn’t weary Last at the Knocker And first at the Bell. Then on divinest tiptoe standing Might He but spy the lady’s soul When He retires Chilled or weary

For largest Woman’s Hearth I knew ‘Tis little I can do And yet the largest Woman’s Heart Could hold an Arrow too And so, instructed by my own, I tenderer, turn Me to.

The Spider as an Artist Has never been employed Though his surpassing Merit Is freely certified By every Broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian Land Neglected Son of Genius I take thee by the

Could I but ride indefinite As doth the Meadow Bee And visit only where I liked And No one visit me And flirt all Day with Buttercups And marry whom I may And dwell

‘Twas sorry, that we were For where the Holiday should be There publishes a Tear Nor how Ourselves be justified Since Grief and Joy are done So similar An Optizan Could not decide between

It tossed and tossed A little Brig I knew o’ertook by Blast It spun and spun And groped delirious, for Morn It slipped and slipped As One that drunken stept Its white foot tripped

Would you like summer? Taste of ours. Spices? Buy here! Ill! We have berries, for the parching! Weary! Furloughs of down! Perplexed! Estates of violet trouble ne’er looked on! Captive! We bring reprieve of

At least to pray is left is left Oh Jesus in the Air I know not which thy chamber is I’m knocking everywhere Thou settest Earthquake in the South And Maelstrom, in the Sea

Water makes many Beds For those averse to sleep Its awful chamber open stands Its Curtains blandly sweep Abhorrent is the Rest In undulating Rooms Whose Amplitude no end invades Whose Axis never comes.

In Ebon Box, when years have flown To reverently peer, Wiping away the velvet dust Summers have sprinkled there! To hold a letter to the light Grown Tawny now, with time To con the

I like to see it lap the Miles And lick the Valleys up And stop to feed itself at Tanks And then prodigious step Around a Pile of Mountains And supercilious peer In Shanties

Whether they have forgotten Or are forgetting now Or never remembered Safer not to know Miseries of conjecture Are a softer woe Than a Fact of Iron Hardened with I know

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

I found the words to every thought I ever had but One And that defies me As a Hand did try to chalk the Sun To Races nurtured in the Dark How would your

A little Road not made of Man Enabled of the Eye Accessible to Thill of Bee Or Cart of Butterfly If Town it have beyond itself ‘Tis that I cannot say I only know

Ample make this Bed Make this Bed with Awe In it wait till Judgment break Excellent and Fair. Be its Mattress straight Be its Pillow round Let no Sunrise’ yellow noise Interrupt this Ground

March is the Month of Expectation. The things we do not know The Persons of prognostication Are coming now We try to show becoming firmness But pompous Joy Betrays us, as his first Betrothal

Lift it with the Feathers Not alone we fly Launch it the aquatic Not the only sea Advocate the Azure To the lower Eyes He has obligation Who has Paradise

Somewhat, to hope for, Be it ne’er so far Is Capital against Despair Somewhat, to suffer, Be it ne’er so keen If terminable, may be borne.

Of Death I try to think like this The Well in which they lay us Is but the Likeness of the Brook That menaced not to slay us, But to invite by that Dismay

This was a Poet It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings And Attar so immense From the familiar species That perished by the Door We wonder it was not Ourselves Arrested it

Only God detect the Sorrow Only God The Jehovahs are no Babblers Unto God God the Son Confide it Still secure God the Spirit’s Honor Just as sure

It can’t be “Summer”! That got through! It’s early yet for “Spring”! There’s that long town of White to cross Before the Blackbirds sing! It can’t be “Dying”! It’s too Rouge The Dead shall

All I may, if small, Do it not display Larger for the Totalness ‘Tis Economy To bestow a World And withhold a Star Utmost, is Munificence Less, tho’ larger, poor.

The most triumphant Bird I ever knew or met Embarked upon a twig today And till Dominion set I famish to behold so eminent a sight And sang for nothing scrutable But intimate Delight.

My first well Day since many ill I asked to go abroad, And take the Sunshine in my hands, And see the things in Pod A ‘blossom just when I went in To take

The rainbow never tells me That gust and storm are by, Yet is she more convincing Than Philosophy. My flowers turn from Forums Yet eloquent declare What Cato couldn’t prove me Except the birds

After great pain, a formal feeling comes The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round Of Ground,

Much MADNESS is divinest sense (Author) To a discerning eye Much sense the starkest madness. ‘T’ is the MAJORITY In this, as all, prevail Assent and you are sane Demur, you’re straightway dangerous And

I should have been too glad, I see Too lifted for the scant degree Of Life’s penurious Round My little Circuit would have shamed This new Circumference have blamed The homelier time behind. I