pain
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There is a Languor of the Life
More imminent than Pain –
‘Tis Pain’s Successor — When the Soul
Has suffered all it can –
A Drowsiness — diffuses –
A Dimness like a Fog
Envelops Consciousness –
As Mists — obliterate a Crag.
The Surgeon — does not blanch — at pain
His Habit — is severe –
But tell him that it ceased to feel –
The Creature lying there –
And he will tell you — skill is late –
A Mightier than He –
Has ministered before Him –
There’s no Vitality.
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How sick — to wait — in any place — but thine –
I knew last night — when someone tried to twine –
Thinking — perhaps — that I looked tired — or alone –
Or breaking — almost — with unspoken pain –
And I turned — ducal –
That right — was thine –
One port — suffices — for a Brig — like mine –
Ours be the tossing — wild though the sea –
Rather than a Mooring — unshared by thee.
Ours be the Cargo — unladed — here –
Rather than the “spicy isles –”
And thou — not there –
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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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A happy lip — breaks sudden –
It doesn’t state you how
It contemplated — smiling –
Just consummated — now –
But this one, wears its merriment
So patient — like a pain –
Fresh gilded — to elude the eyes
Unqualified, to scan –
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‘Twas the old — road — through pain –
That unfrequented — one –
With many a turn — and thorn –
That stops — at Heaven –
This — was the Town — she passed –
There — where she — rested — last –
Then — stepped more fast –
The little tracks — close prest –
Then — not so swift –
Slow — slow — as feet did weary — grow –
Then — stopped — no other track!
Wait! Look! Her little Book –
The leaf — at love — turned back –
Her very Hat –
And this worn shoe just fits the track –
Herself — though — fled!
Another bed — a short one –
Women make — tonight –
In Chambers bright –
Too out of sight — though –
For our hoarse Good Night –
To touch her Head!
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After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round –
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go –
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Bound — a trouble –
And lives can bear it!
Limit — how deep a bleeding go!
So — many — drops — of vital scarlet –
Deal with the soul
As with Algebra!
Tell it the Ages — to a cypher –
And it will ache — contented — on –
Sing — at its pain — as any Workman –
Notching the fall of the Even Sun!
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It is easy to work when the soul is at play –
But when the soul is in pain –
The hearing him put his playthings up
Makes work difficult — then –
It is simple, to ache in the Bone, or the Rind –
But Gimlets — among the nerve –
Mangle daintier — terribler –
Like a Panter in the Glove –
Tags: ache, bone, daintier, difficult, easy, gimlets, glove, Love, mangle, nerve, pain, panter, play, playthings, simple, soul, terribler, work
