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 –
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Why — do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing — too loud?
But — I can say a little “Minor”
Timid as a Bird!
Wouldn’t the Angels try me –
Just — once — more –
Just — see — if I troubled them –
But don’t — shut the door!
Oh, if I — were the Gentleman
In the “White Robe” –
And they — were the little Hand — that knocked –
Could — I — forbid?
We don’t cry — Tim and I,
We are far too grand –
But we bolt the door tight
To prevent a friend –
Then we hide our brave face
Deep in our hand –
Not to cry — Tim and I –
We are far too grand –
Nor to dream — he and me –
Do we condescend –
We just shut our brown eye
To see to the end –
Tim — see Cottages –
But, Oh, so high!
Then — we shake — Tim and I –
And lest I — cry –
Tim — reads a little Hymn –
And we both pray –
Please, Sir, I and Tim –
Always lost the way!
We must die — by and by –
Clergymen say –
Tim — shall — if I — do –
I — too — if he –
How shall we arrange it –
Tim — was — so — shy?
Take us simultaneous — Lord –
I — “Tim” — and Me!
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 faded syllables
That quickened us like Wine!
Perhaps a Flower’s shrivelled check
Among its stores to find –
Plucked far away, some morning –
By gallant — mouldering hand!
A curl, perhaps, from foreheads
Our Constancy forgot –
Perhaps, an Antique trinket –
In vanished fashions set!
And then to lay them quiet back –
And go about its care –
As if the little Ebon Box
Were none of our affair!
She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand –
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.
Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it –
And with the Saints sat down.
No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet –
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street –
But Crowns instead, and Courtiers –
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy — immortal face
Of whom we’re whispering here?