Tag Archives: heads

Smiling back from Coronation

Smiling back from CoronationSmiling back from Coronation
May be Luxury —
On the Heads that started with us —
Being’s Peasantry —

Recognizing in Procession
Ones We former knew —
When Ourselves were also dusty —
Centuries ago —

Had the Triumph no Conviction
Of how many be —
Stimulated — by the Contrast —
Unto Misery –

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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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Unto like Story — Trouble has enticed me –

Unto like Story -- Trouble has enticed me --Unto like Story — Trouble has enticed me —
How Kinsmen fell —
Brothers and Sister — who preferred the Glory —
And their young will
Bent to the Scaffold, or in Dungeons — chanted —
Till God’s full time —
When they let go the ignominy — smiling —
And Shame went still —

Unto guessed Crests, my moaning fancy, leads me,
Worn fair
By Heads rejected — in the lower country —
Of honors there —
Such spirit makes her perpetual mention,
That I — grown bold —
Step martial — at my Crucifixion —
As Trumpets — rolled —

Feet, small as mine — have marched in Revolution
Firm to the Drum —
Hands — not so stout — hoisted them — in witness —
When Speech went numb —
Let me not shame their sublime deportments —
Drilled bright —
Beckoning — Etruscan invitation —
Toward Light –

How noteless Men, and Pleiads, stand

How noteless Men, and Pleiads, standHow noteless Men, and Pleiads, stand,
Until a sudden sky
Reveals the fact that One is rapt
Forever from the Eye —

Members of the Invisible,
Existing, while we stare,
In Leagueless Opportunity,
O’ertakenless, as the Air —

Why didn’t we detain Them?
The Heavens with a smile,
Sweep by our disappointed Heads
Without a syllable —

When we stand on the tops of Things –

When we stand on the tops of Things --When we stand on the tops of Things —
And like the Trees, look down —
The smoke all cleared away from it —
And Mirrors on the scene —

Just laying light — no soul will wink
Except it have the flaw —
The Sound ones, like the Hills — shall stand —
No Lighting, scares away —

The Perfect, nowhere be afraid —
They bear their dauntless Heads,
Where others, dare not go at Noon,
Protected by their deeds —

The Stars dare shine occasionally
Upon a spotted World —
And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,
As if an Axle, held –

I cautious, scanned my little life

I cautious, scanned my little lifeI cautious, scanned my little life —
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till Heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.

I put the latter in a Barn —
The former, blew away.
I went one winter morning
And lo – my priceless Hay

Was not upon the “Scaffold” —
Was not upon the “Beam” —
And from a thriving Farmer —
A Cynic, I became.

Whether a Thief did it —
Whether it was the wind —
Whether Deity’s guiltless —
My business is, to find!

So I begin to ransack!
How is it Hearts, with Thee?
Art thou within the little Barn
Love provided Thee?

Whose are the little beds, I asked

Whose are the little beds, I askedWhose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled —
And no one made reply.

Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again —
Whose are the beds — the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?

‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest —
A little further on —
Nearest the door — to wake the Ist —
Little Leontoden.

‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster —
Anemone, and Bell —
Bartsia, in the blanket red —
And chubby Daffodil.

Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied —
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.

Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids —
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,
She’s dreaming of the woods!

Then turning from them reverent —
Their bedtime ’tis, she said —
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.