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!

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 –

Ah, Necromancy Sweet!
Ah, Wizard erudite!
Teach me the skill,

That I instil the pain
Surgeons assuage in vain,
Nor Herb of all the plain
Can Heal!

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!

To learn the Transport by the Pain
As Blind Men learn the sun!
To die of thirst — suspecting
That Brooks in Meadows run!

To stay the homesick — homesick feet
Upon a foreign shore –
Haunted by native lands, the while –
And blue — beloved air!

This is the Sovereign Anguish!
This — the signal woe!
These are the patient “Laureates”
Whose voices — trained — below –

Ascend in ceaseless Carol –
Inaudible, indeed,
To us — the duller scholars
Of the Mysterious Bard!

You love me — you are sure –
I shall not fear mistake –
I shall not cheated wake –
Some grinning morn –
To find the Sunrise left –
And Orchards — unbereft –
And Dollie — gone!

I need not start — you’re sure –
That night will never be –
When frightened — home to Thee I run –
To find the windows dark –
And no more Dollie — mark –
Quite none?

Be sure you’re sure — you know –
I’ll bear it better now –
If you’ll just tell me so –
Than when — a little dull Balm grown –
Over this pain of mine –
You sting — again!

If pain for peace prepares
Lo, what “Augustan” years
Our feet await!

If springs from winter rise,
Can the Anemones
Be reckoned up?

If night stands fast — then noon
To gird us for the sun,
What gaze!

When from a thousand skies
On our developed eyes
Noons blaze!

A clock stopped — not the mantel’s;
Geneva’s farthest skill
Can’t put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.

An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.

It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No

Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from the seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.

Of bronze and blaze
The north, to-night!
So adequate its forms,
So preconcerted with itself,
So distant to alarms, –
An unconcern so sovereign
To universe, or me,
It paints my simple spirit
With tints of majesty,
Till I take vaster attitudes,
And strut upon my stem,
Disdaining men and oxygen,
For arrogance of them.

My splendors are menagerie;
But their competeless show
Will entertain the centuries
When I am, long ago,
An island in dishonored grass,
Whom none but daisies know.

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.