I groped for him before I knew
With solemn nameless need
All other bounty sudden chaff
For this foreshadowed Food
Which others taste and spurn and sneer -
Though I within suppose
That consecrated it could be
The only Food that grows.
"Go tell it" - What a Message -
To whom - is specified -
Not murmur - not endearment -
But simply - we obeyed -
Obeyed - a Lure - a Longing?
Oh Nature - none of this -
To Law - said Sweet Thermopylae
I give my dying Kiss.
Bliss is the Plaything of the child -
The secret of the man
The sacred stealth of Boy and Girl
Rebuke it if we can.
Oh sun light my heart
Wind blow away my sorrows
and my laments.
I know no greater pleasure
than to go to distant parts.
Along the plain I follow my path, the sun
must warm me, the sea must cool me,
And so each day must find new friends,
new brothers for me
until all the forces may celebrate with delight
and each star must
my guest and friend and guest become.
Hope is a strange invention -
A Patent of the Heart -
In unremitting action
Yet never wearing out -
Of this electric adjunct
Not anything is known
But it's unique momentum
Embellish all we own.
These held their Wick above the west -
Till when the Red declined -
Or how the Amber aided it -
Defied to be defined -
Then waned without disparagement
In a dissembling Hue
That would not let the Eye decide
Did it abide or no.
Touch lightly Nature's sweet Guitar
Unless thou know'st the Tune
Or every Bird will point at thee
Because a Bard too soon.
Long Years apart - can make no
Breach a second cannot fill -
The absence of the Witch does not
Invalidate the spell -
The embers of a Thousand Years
Uncovered by the Hand
That fondled them when they were Fire
Will stir and understand.
A Saucer holds a Cup
In sordid human Life
But in a Squirrel's estimate
A Saucer holds a Loaf -
A Table of a Tree
Demands the little King
And every Breeze that run along
His Dining Room do swing -
His Cutlery - he keeps
Within his Russet Lips -
To see it flashing when he dines
Do Birmingham eclipse -
Convicted - could we be
Of our Minutiae
The smallest Citizen that flies
Is heartier than we.
Witchcraft has not a pedigree
'Tis early as our Breath
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death.