I’ve known a Heaven, like a Tent— To wrap its shining Yards— Pluck up its stakes, and disappear— Without the sound of Boards Or Rip of Nail—Or Carpenter— But just the miles of Stare— That signalize a Show’s Retreat— In North America—
No Trace—no Figment of the Thing That dazzled, Yesterday, No Ring—no Marvel— Men, and Feats— Dissolved as utterly— As Bird’s far Navigation Discloses just a Hue— A plash of Oars, a Gaiety— Then swallowed up, of View.
