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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