what remains
 is not word,
 but the fold
  between
 what you took
  and what forgot
   to resist.

this page
 is not written.

it
 waits.

__

1293

The things we thought that we should do
We other things have done
But those peculiar industries
Have never been begun—

The Lands we thought that we should seek
When large enough to run
By Speculation ceded
To Speculation’s Son—

The Heaven, in which we hoped to pause
When Discipline was done
Untenable to Logic
But possibly the one—

You bound strong sandals on my feet,
You gave me bread and wine,
And sent me under sun and stars,
For all the world was mine.

Oh, take the sandals off my feet,
You know not what you do;
For all my world is in your arms,
My sun and stars are you.

Into my heart’s treasury
I slipped a coin
That time cannot take
Nor a thief purloin, —
Oh better than the minting
Of a gold-crowned king
Is the safe-kept memory
Of a lovely thing.