Like eyes that looked on Wastes —
Incredulous of Ought
But Blank — and steady Wilderness —
Diversified by Night —
Just Infinites of Nought —
As far as it could see —
So looked the face I looked upon —
So looked itself — on Me —
I offered it no Help —
Because the Cause was Mine —
The Misery a Compact
As hopeless — as divine —
Neither — would be absolved —
Neither would be a Queen
Without the Other — Therefore —
We perish — tho’ We reign –
Could — I do more — for Thee —
Wert Thou a Bumble Bee —
Since for the Queen, have I —
Nought but Bouquet?
I tie my Hat — I crease my Shawl —
Life’s little duties do — precisely —
As the very least
Were infinite — to me —
I put new Blossoms in the Glass —
And throw the old — away —
I push a petal from my gown
That anchored there — I weigh
The time ’twill be till six o’clock
I have so much to do —
And yet — Existence — some way back —
Stopped — struck — my ticking — through —
We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman — When the Errand’s done
We came to Flesh — upon —
There may be — Miles on Miles of Nought —
Of Action — sicker far —
To simulate — is stinging work —
To cover what we are
From Science — and from Surgery —
Too Telescopic Eyes
To bear on us unshaded —
For their — sake — not for Ours —
‘Twould start them —
We — could tremble —
But since we got a Bomb —
And held it in our Bosom —
Nay — Hold it — it is calm —
Therefore — we do life’s labor —
Though life’s Reward — be done —
With scrupulous exactness —
To hold our Senses — on –
Of Course — I prayed —
And did God Care?
He cared as much as on the Air
A Bird — had stamped her foot —
And cried “Give Me” —
My Reason — Life —
I had not had — but for Yourself —
‘Twere better Charity
To leave me in the Atom’s Tomb —
Merry, and Nought, and gay, and numb —
Than this smart Misery.
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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?
He was weak, and I was strong -then-
So He let me lead him in
I was weak, and He was strong then
So I let him lead me. Home.
‘Twasn’t far -the door was near-
‘Twasn’t dark -for He went- too
‘Twasn’t loud, for He said nought
That was all I cared to know.
Day knocked -and we must part-
Neither -was strongest- now
He strove -and I strove- too
We didn’t do it -tho’!
Except to Heaven, she is nought.
Except for Angels — lone.
Except to some wide-wandering Bee
A flower superfluous blown.
Except for winds — provincial.
Except by Butterflies
Unnoticed as a single dew
That on the Acre lies.
The smallest Housewife in the grass,
Yet take her from the Lawn
And somebody has lost the face
That made Existence — Home!