Tag Archives: round

No Man can compass a Despair —

No Man can compass a DespairNo Man can compass a Despair —
As round a Goalless Road
No faster than a Mile at once
The Traveller proceed —

Unconscious of the Width —
Unconscious that the Sun
Be setting on His progress —
So accurate the One

At estimating Pain —
Whose own — has just begun —
His ignorance — the Angel
That pilot Him along —

I am ashamed — I hide —

I am ashamed I hideI am ashamed — I hide —
What right have I — to be a Bride —
So late a Dowerless Girl —
Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face —
No one to teach me that new Grace —
Nor introduce — my Soul —

Me to adorn — How — tell —
Trinket — to make Me beautiful —
Fabrics of Cashmere —
Never a Gown of Dun — more —
Raiment instead — of Pompadour —
For Me — My soul — to wear —

Fingers — to frame my Round Hair
Oval — as Feudal Ladies wore —
Far Fashions — Fair —
Skill to hold my Brow like an Earl —
Plead — like a Whippoorwill —
Prove — like a Pearl —
Then, for Character —
Fashion My Spirit quaint — white —
Quick — like a Liquor —
Gay — like Light —
Bring Me my best Pride —
No more ashamed —
No more to hide —
Meek — let it be — too proud — for Pride —
Baptized — this Day — a Bride —

We do not play on Graves —

We do not play on Graves
We do not play on Graves —
Because there isn’t Room —
Besides — it isn’t even — it slants
And People come —

And put a Flower on it —
And hang their faces so —
We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop —
And crush our pretty play —

And so we move as far
As Enemies — away —
Just looking round to see how far
It is — Occasionally —

‘Twas just this time, last year, I died.

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.‘Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms —
It had the Tassels on —

I thought how yellow it would look —
When Richard went to mill —
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.

I thought just how Red — Apples wedged
The Stubble’s joints between —
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in —

I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father’d multiply the plates —
To make an even Sum —

And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me —

But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year —
Themself, should come to me —

I felt my life with both my hands

I felt my life with both my handsI felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there —
I held my spirit to the Glass,
To prove it possibler —

I turned my Being round and round
And paused at every pound
To ask the Owner’s name —
For doubt, that I should know the Sound —

I judged my features — jarred my hair —
I pushed my dimples by, and waited —
If they — twinkled back —
Conviction might, of me —

I told myself, “Take Courage, Friend —
That — was a former time —
But we might learn to like the Heaven,
As well as our Old Home!”

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After great pain, a formal feeling comes —

After great pain, a formal feeling comes --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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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 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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