shift
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It don’t sound so terrible — quite — as it did –
I run it over — “Dead”, Brain, “Dead.”
Put it in Latin — left of my school –
Seems it don’t shriek so — under rule.
Turn it, a little — full in the face
A Trouble looks bitterest –
Shift it — just –
Say “When Tomorrow comes this way –
I shall have waded down one Day.”
I suppose it will interrupt me some
Till I get accustomed — but then the Tomb
Like other new Things — shows largest — then –
And smaller, by Habit –
It’s shrewder then
Put the Thought in advance — a Year –
How like “a fit” — then –
Murder — wear!
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The Angle of a Landscape –
That every time I wake –
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack –
Like a Venetian — waiting –
Accosts my open eye –
Is just a Bough of Apples –
Held slanting, in the Sky –
The Pattern of a Chimney –
The Forehead of a Hill –
Sometimes — a Vane’s Forefinger –
But that’s — Occasional –
The Seasons — shift — my Picture –
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake — to find no — Emeralds –
Then — Diamonds — which the Snow
From Polar Caskets — fetched me –
The Chimney — and the Hill –
And just the Steeple’s finger –
These — never stir at all –
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