never
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The Angle of a Landscape –
That every time I wake –
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack –
Like a Venetian — waiting –
Accosts my open eye –
Is just a Bough of Apples –
Held slanting, in the Sky –
The Pattern of a Chimney –
The Forehead of a Hill –
Sometimes — a Vane’s Forefinger –
But that’s — Occasional –
The Seasons — shift — my Picture –
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake — to find no — Emeralds –
Then — Diamonds — which the Snow
From Polar Caskets — fetched me –
The Chimney — and the Hill –
And just the Steeple’s finger –
These — never stir at all –
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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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Alone, I cannot be –
For Hosts — do visit me –
Recordless Company –
Who baffle Key –
They have no Robes, nor Names –
No Almanacs — nor Climes –
But general Homes
Like Gnomes –
Their Coming, may be known
By Couriers within –
Their going — is not –
For they’ve never gone –
Tags: almanacs, alone, baffle, cannot, climes, coming, company, couriers, gnomes, going, gone, homes, hosts, key, names, never, recordless, robes, visit, within
I have never seen “Volcanoes” –
But, when Travellers tell
How those old — phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still –
Bear within — appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men –
If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place –
If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome –
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?
If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy “Pompeii”!
To the Hills return!
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