Poems: Third Series | Page 4

amiss?For fear I spoil my shoe?
I'd rather suit my foot?Than save my boot,?For yet to buy another pair?Is possible?At any fair.
But bliss is sold just once;?The patent lost?None buy it any more.
LIII.
EXPERIENCE.
I stepped from plank to plank?So slow and cautiously;?The stars about my head I felt,?About my feet the sea.
I knew not but the next?Would be my final inch, --?This gave me that precarious gait?Some call experience.
LIV.
THANKSGIVING DAY.
One day is there of the series?Termed Thanksgiving day,?Celebrated part at table,?Part in memory.
Neither patriarch nor pussy,?I dissect the play;?Seems it, to my hooded thinking,?Reflex holiday.
Had there been no sharp subtraction?From the early sum,?Not an acre or a caption?Where was once a room,
Not a mention, whose small pebble?Wrinkled any bay, --?Unto such, were such assembly,?'T were Thanksgiving day.
LV.
CHILDISH GRIEFS.
Softened by Time's consummate plush,?How sleek the woe appears?That threatened childhood's citadel?And undermined the years!
Bisected now by bleaker griefs,?We envy the despair?That devastated childhood's realm,?So easy to repair.
II. LOVE.
I.
CONSECRATION.
Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,?Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,?Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,?Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
II.
LOVE'S HUMILITY.
My worthiness is all my doubt,?His merit all my fear,?Contrasting which, my qualities?Do lowlier appear;
Lest I should insufficient prove?For his beloved need,?The chiefest apprehension?Within my loving creed.
So I, the undivine abode?Of his elect content,?Conform my soul as 't were a church?Unto her sacrament.
III.
LOVE.
Love is anterior to life,?Posterior to death,?Initial of creation, and?The exponent of breath.
IV.
SATISFIED.
One blessing had I, than the rest?So larger to my eyes?That I stopped gauging, satisfied,?For this enchanted size.
It was the limit of my dream,?The focus of my prayer, --?A perfect, paralyzing bliss?Contented as despair.
I knew no more of want or cold,?Phantasms both become,?For this new value in the soul,?Supremest earthly sum.
The heaven below the heaven above?Obscured with ruddier hue.?Life's latitude leant over-full;?The judgment perished, too.
Why joys so scantily disburse,?Why Paradise defer,?Why floods are served to us in bowls, --?I speculate no more.
V.
WITH A FLOWER.
When roses cease to bloom, dear,?And violets are done,?When bumble-bees in solemn flight?Have passed beyond the sun,
The hand that paused to gather?Upon this summer's day?Will idle lie, in Auburn, --?Then take my flower, pray!
VI.
SONG.
Summer for thee grant I may be?When summer days are flown!?Thy music still when whippoorwill?And oriole are done!
For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb?And sow my blossoms o'er!?Pray gather me, Anemone,?Thy flower forevermore!
VII.
LOYALTY.
Split the lark and you'll find the music,?Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled,?Scantily dealt to the summer morning,?Saved for your ear when lutes be old.
Loose the flood, you shall find it patent,?Gush after gush, reserved for you;?Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas,?Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?
VIII.
To lose thee, sweeter than to gain?All other hearts I knew.?'T is true the drought is destitute,?But then I had the dew!
The Caspian has its realms of sand,?Its other realm of sea;?Without the sterile perquisite?No Caspian could be.
IX.
Poor little heart!?Did they forget thee??Then dinna care! Then dinna care!
Proud little heart!?Did they forsake thee??Be debonair! Be debonair!
Frail little heart!?I would not break thee:?Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?
Gay little heart!?Like morning glory?Thou'll wilted be; thou'll wilted be!
X.
FORGOTTEN.
There is a word?Which bears a sword?Can pierce an armed man.?It hurls its barbed syllables,--?At once is mute again.?But where it fell?The saved will tell?On patriotic day,?Some epauletted brother?Gave his breath away.
Wherever runs the breathless sun,?Wherever roams the day,?There is its noiseless onset,?There is its victory!
Behold the keenest marksman!?The most accomplished shot!?Time's sublimest target?Is a soul 'forgot'!
XI.
I've got an arrow here;?Loving the hand that sent it,?I the dart revere.
Fell, they will say, in 'skirmish'!?Vanquished, my soul will know,?By but a simple arrow?Sped by an archer's bow.
XII.
THE MASTER.
He fumbles at your spirit?As players at the keys?Before they drop full music on;?He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle substance?For the ethereal blow,?By fainter hammers, further heard,?Then nearer, then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten,?Your brain to bubble cool, --?Deals one imperial thunderbolt?That scalps your naked soul.
XIII.
Heart, we will forget him!?You and I, to-night!?You may forget the warmth he gave,?I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,?That I my thoughts may dim;?Haste! lest while you're lagging,?I may remember him!
XIV.
Father, I bring thee not myself, --?That were the little load;?I bring thee the imperial heart?I had not strength to hold.
The heart I cherished in my own?Till mine too heavy grew,?Yet strangest, heavier since it went,?Is it too large for you?
XV.
We outgrow love like other things?And put it in the drawer,?Till it an antique fashion shows?Like costumes grandsires wore.
XVI.
Not with a club the heart is broken,
Nor with a stone;?A whip, so small you could not see it.
I've known
To lash the magic creature
Till it fell,?Yet that whip's name too noble
Then to tell.
Magnanimous of bird
By boy descried,?To sing unto the stone
Of which it died.
XVII.
WHO?
My friend must be a bird,
Because it flies!?Mortal my friend must be,
Because it dies!?Barbs has it, like