THE SNOW. It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool.
There interposed a fly, With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me; And then the windows failed, and then I could not see to see.
A face devoid of love or grace, A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stone Would feel as thoroughly at ease As were they old acquaintances, –.
There’s been a death in the opposite house.
The thought behind I strove to join Unto the thought before, But sequence ravelled out of reach.
It burned me in the night, It blistered in my dream;.
I thought that storm was brief, – The maddest, quickest by; But Nature lost the date of this, And left it in the sky.
Stands the sun so close and mighty That our minds are hot.
And only the waves reply.
I should have had the joy Without the fear to justify, –.
Fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling.
She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer’s eve;.
I like a look of agony, Because I know it ’s true;.
Was dying as he thought, or different; Was it a pleasant day to die, And did the sunshine face his way?
It dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones At bottom of my mind; Yet.
A horror so refined.
To pile like Thunder to its close, Then crumble grand away, While everything created hid – This would be Poetry: Or Love, – the two coeval came – We both and neither prove, Experience either, and consume – For none see God and live.
Some things that fly there be, – Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:.
I know some lonely houses off the road.
I’ll tell you how the sun rose, – A ribbon at a time.