Poems

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 should have been too saved — I see –
Too rescued — Fear too dim to me
That I could spell the Prayer
I knew so perfect — yesterday –
That Scalding One — Sabachthani –
Recited fluent — here –

Earth would have been too much — I see –
And Heaven — not enough for me –
I should have had the Joy
Without the Fear — to justify –
The Palm — without the Calvary –
So Savior — Crucify –
Defeat — whets Victory — they say –
The Reefs — in old Gethsemane –
Endear the Coast — beyond!
‘Tis Beggars — Banquets — can define –
‘Tis Parching — vitalizes Wine –
“Faith” bleats — to understand!

Her — “last Poems” –
Poets — ended –
Silver — perished — with her Tongue –
Not on Record — bubbled other,
Flute — or Woman –
So divine –
Not unto its Summer — Morning
Robin — uttered Half the Tune –
Gushed too free for the Adoring –
From the Anglo-Florentine –
Late — the Praise –
‘Tis dull — conferring
On the Head too High to Crown –
Diadem — or Ducal Showing –
Be its Grave — sufficient sign –
Nought — that We — No Poet’s Kinsman –
Suffocate — with easy woe –
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom –
Put Her down — in Italy?

It sifts from Leaden Sieves –
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road –

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain –
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again –

It reaches to the Fence –
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces –
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack — and Stem –
A Summer’s empty Room –
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them–

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen –
Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts –
Denying they have been –

Give little Anguish –
Lives will fret –
Give Avalanches –
And they’ll slant –
Straighten — look cautious for their Breath –
But make no syllable — like Death –
Who only shows the Marble Disc –
Sublimer sort — than Speech –

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.

I send Two Sunsets –
Day and I — in competition ran –
I finished Two — and several Stars –
While He — was making One –

His own was ampler — but as I
Was saying to a friend –
Mine — is the more convenient
To Carry in the Hand –

The Soul’s Superior instants
Occur to Her — alone –
When friend — and Earth’s occasion
Have infinite withdrawn –

Or She — Herself — ascended
To too remote a Height
For lower Recognition
Than Her Omnipotent –

This Mortal Abolition
Is seldom — but as fair
As Apparition — subject
To Autocratic Air –

Eternity’s disclosure
To favorites — a few –
Of the Colossal substance
Of Immortality

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