Tag Archives: rank

I’m saying every day

I'm saying every dayI’m saying every day
“If I should be a Queen, tomorrow” —
I’d do this way —
And so I deck, a little,

If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
None on me, bend supercilious —
With “This was she —
Begged in the Market place —
Yesterday.”

Court is a stately place —
I’ve heard men say —
So I loop my apron, against the Majesty
With bright Pins of Buttercup —
That not too plain —
Rank — overtake me —

And perch my Tongue
On Twigs of singing — rather high —
But this, might be my brief Term
To qualify —

Put from my simple speech all plain word —
Take other accents, as such I heard
Though but for the Cricket — just,
And but for the Bee —
Not in all the Meadow —
One accost me —

Better to be ready —
Than did next morn
Meet me in Aragon —
My old Gown — on —

And the surprised Air
Rustics — wear —
Summoned — unexpectedly —
To Exeter –

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The face I carry with me — last –

The face I carry with me -- last --The face I carry with me — last —
When I go out of Time —
To take my Rank — by — in the West —
That face — will just be thine —

I’ll hand it to the Angel —
That — Sir — was my Degree —
In Kingdoms — you have heard the Raised —
Refer to — possibly.

He’ll take it — scan it — step aside —
Return — with such a crown
As Gabriel — never capered at —
And beg me put it on —

And then — he’ll turn me round and round —
To an admiring sky —
As one that bore her Master’s name —
Sufficient Royalty!

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Of Tribulation, these are They

Of Tribulation, these are TheyOf Tribulation, these are They,
Denoted by the White —
The Spangled Gowns, a lesser Rank
Of Victors — designate —

All these — did conquer —
But the ones who overcame most times —
Wear nothing commoner than Snow —
No Ornament, but Palms —

Surrender — is a sort unknown —
On this superior soil —
Defeat — an outgrown Anguish —
Remembered, as the Mile

Our panting Ankle barely passed —
When Night devoured the Road —
But we — stood whispering in the House —
And all we said — was “Saved”!

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Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

Of all the Sounds despatched abroadOf all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs —
That phraseless Melody —
The Wind does — working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky —
Then quiver down — with tufts of Tune —
Permitted Gods, and me —

Inheritance, it is, to us —
Beyond the Art to Earn —
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers —
And inner than the Bone —
Hid golden, for the whole of Days,
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some odd fashion of its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands —
And thrum upon the door,
And Birds take places, overhead,
To bear them Orchestra.

I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,
If such an Outcast be —
Who never heard that fleshless Chant —
Rise — solemn — on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and swept —
In Seamless Company –

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