Tag Archives: hand

Take your Heaven further on –

Take your Heaven further on --Take your Heaven further on —
This — to Heaven divine Has gone —
Had You earlier blundered in
Possibly, e’en You had seen
An Eternity — put on —
Now — to ring a Door beyond
Is the utmost of Your Hand —
To the Skies — apologize —
Nearer to Your Courtesies
Than this Sufferer polite —
Dressed to meet You —
See — in White!

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A precious — mouldering pleasure — ’tis –

A precious -- mouldering pleasure -- 'tis --A precious — mouldering pleasure — ’tis —
To meet an Antique Book —
In just the Dress his Century wore —
A privilege — I think —

His venerable Hand to take —
And warming in our own —
A passage back — or two — to make —
To Times when he — was young —

His quaint opinions — to inspect —
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind —
The Literature of Man —

What interested Scholars — most —
What Competitions ran —
When Plato — was a Certainty —
And Sophocles — a Man —

When Sappho — was a living Girl —
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante — deified —
Facts Centuries before

He traverses — familiar —
As One should come to Town —
And tell you all your Dreams — were true —
He lived — where Dreams were born —

His presence is Enchantment —
You beg him not to go —
Old Volume shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize — just so –

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Over and over, like a Tune –

Over and over, like a Tune --Over and over, like a Tune —
The Recollection plays —
Drums off the Phantom Battlements
Cornets of Paradise —

Snatches, from Baptized Generations —
Cadences too grand
But for the Justified Processions
At the Lord’s Right hand.

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Although I put away his life –

Although I put away his life --Although I put away his life —
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand

That sowed the flower, he preferred —
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path —
Or played his chosen tune —

On Lute the least — the latest —
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go —

The foot to bear his errand —
A little Boot I know —
Would leap abroad like Antelope —
With just the grant to do —

His weariest Commandment —
A sweeter to obey,
Than “Hide and Seek” —
Or skip to Flutes —
Or all Day, chase the Bee —

Your Servant, Sir, will weary —
The Surgeon, will not come —
The World, will have its own — to do —
The Dust, will vex your Fame —

The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay —

That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me —
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first — to me.

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They leave us with the Infinite.

They leave us with the Infinite.They leave us with the Infinite.
But He — is not a man —
His fingers are the size of fists —
His fists, the size of men —

And whom he foundeth, with his Arm
As Himmaleh, shall stand —
Gibraltar’s Everlasting Shoe
Poised lightly on his Hand,

So trust him, Comrade —
You for you, and I, for you and me
Eternity is ample,
And quick enough, if true.

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As if I asked a common Alms

As if I asked a common AlmsAs if I asked a common Alms,
And in my wondering hand
A Stranger pressed a Kingdom,
And I, bewildered, stand —
As if I asked the Orient
Had it for me a Morn —
And it should lift its purple Dikes,
And shatter me with Dawn!

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Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

Of all the Sounds despatched abroadOf all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs —
That phraseless Melody —
The Wind does — working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky —
Then quiver down — with tufts of Tune —
Permitted Gods, and me —

Inheritance, it is, to us —
Beyond the Art to Earn —
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers —
And inner than the Bone —
Hid golden, for the whole of Days,
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some odd fashion of its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands —
And thrum upon the door,
And Birds take places, overhead,
To bear them Orchestra.

I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,
If such an Outcast be —
Who never heard that fleshless Chant —
Rise — solemn — on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and swept —
In Seamless Company –

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