Portraits are to daily faces As an evening west To a fine, pedantic sunshine In a satin vest.
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.
THE SNOW. It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool.
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.