104

Where I have lost, I softer tread—
I sow sweet flower from garden bed—
I pause above that vanished head
          And mourn.

Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word—
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
          Though stone!

When I have lost, you’ll know by this—
A Bonnet black—A dusk surplice—
A little tremor in my voice
          Like this!

Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
          Next Bliss!

1582

Where Roses would not dare to go,
What Heart would risk the way—
And so I send my Crimson Scouts
To sound the Enemy—

265

Where Ships of Purple—gently toss—
On Seas of Daffodil—
Fantastic Sailors—mingle—
And then—the Wharf is still!

725

Where Thou art—that—is Home—
Cashmere—or Calvary—the same—
Degree—or Shame—
I scarce esteem Location’s Name—
So I may Come—

What Thou dost—is Delight—
******* as Play—be sweet—
Imprisonment—Content—
And Sentence—Sacrament—
Just We two—meet—

Where Thou art not—is Woe—
Tho’ Bands of Spices—row—
What Thou dost not—Despair—
Tho’ Gabriel—praise me—Sire—

52

Whether my bark went down at sea—
Whether she met with gales—
Whether to isles enchanted
She bent her docile sails—

By what mystic mooring
She is held today—
This is the errand of the eye
Out upon the Bay.

1329

Whether they have forgotten
Or are forgetting now
Or never remembered—
Safer not to know—

Miseries of conjecture
Are a softer woe
Than a Fact of Iron
Hardened with I know—

1012

Which is best? Heaven—
Or only Heaven to come
With that old Codicil of Doubt?
I cannot help esteem

The “Bird within the Hand”
Superior to the one
The “Bush” may yield me
Or may not
Too late to choose again.

1315

Which is the best—the Moon or the Crescent?
Neither—said the Moon—
That is best which is not—Achieve it—
You efface the Sheen.

Not of detention is Fruition—
Shudder to attain.
Transport’s decomposition follows—
He is Prism born.

1759

Which misses most,
The hand that tends,
Or heart so gently borne,
’Tis twice as heavy as it was
Because the hand is gone?

Which blesses most,
The lip that can,
Or that that went to sleep

With “if I could” endeavoring
Without the strength to shape?

331

While Asters—
On the Hill—
Their Everlasting fashions—set—
And Covenant Gentians—Frill!

491

While it is alive
Until Death touches it
While it and I lap one Air
Dwell in one Blood
Under one Sacrament
Show me Division can split or pare—

Love is like Life—merely longer
Love is like Death, during the Grave
Love is the Fellow of the Resurrection
Scooping up the Dust and chanting “Live”!

1277

While we were fearing it, it came—
But came with less of fear
Because that fearing it so long
Had almost made it fair—

There is a Fitting—a Dismay—
A Fitting—a Despair
’Tis harder knowing it is Due
Than knowing it is Here.

They Trying on the Utmost
The Morning it is new
Is Terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through.

1250

White as an Indian Pipe
Red as a Cardinal Flower
Fabulous as a Moon at Noon
February Hour—

1616

Who abdicated Ambush
And went the way of Dusk,
And now against his subtle Name
There stands an Asterisk
As confident of him as we—
Impregnable we are—
The whole of Immortality
Secreted in a Star.

803

Who Court obtain within Himself
Sees every Man a King—
And Poverty of Monarchy
Is an interior thing—

No Man depose
Whom Fate Ordain—
And Who can add a Crown
To Him who doth continual
Conspire against His Own

1451

Whoever disenchants
A single Human soul
By failure of irreverence
Is guilty of the whole.

As guileless as a Bird
As graphic as a star
Till the suggestion sinister
Things are not what they are—

796

Who Giants know, with lesser Men
Are incomplete, and shy—
For Greatness, that is ill at ease
In minor Company—

A Smaller, could not be perturbed—
The Summer Gnat displays—
Unconscious that his single Fleet
Do not comprise the skies—

1223

Who goes to dine must take his Feast
Or find the Banquet mean—
The Table is not laid without
Till it is laid within.

For Pattern is the Mind bestowed
That imitating her
Our most ignoble Services
Exhibit worthier.

1544

Who has not found the Heaven—below—
Will fail of it above—
For Angels rent the House next ours,
Wherever we remove—

1598

Who is it seeks my Pillow Nights—
With plain inspecting face—
“Did you” or “Did you not,” to ask—
’Tis “Conscience”—Childhood’s Nurse—

With Martial Hand she strokes the Hair
Upon my wincing Head—
“All” Rogues “shall have their part in” what—
The Phosphorous of God—

1032

Who is the East?
The Yellow Man
Who may be Purple if He can
That carries in the Sun.

Who is the West?
The Purple Man
Who may be Yellow if He can
That lets Him out again.

658

Whole Gulfs—of Red, and Fleets—of Red—
And Crews—of solid Blood—
Did place upon the West—Tonight—
As ’twere specific Ground—

And They—appointed Creatures—
In Authorized Arrays—
Due—promptly—as a Drama—
That bows—and disappears—

73

Who never lost, are unprepared
A Coronet to find!
Who never thirsted
Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind!

Who never climbed the weary league—
Can such a foot explore
The purple territories
On Pizarro’s shore?

How many Legions overcome—
The Emperor will say?
How many Colors taken
On Revolution Day?

How many Bullets bearest?
Hast Thou the Royal scar?
Angels! Write “Promoted”
On this Soldier’s brow!

1430

Who never wanted—maddest Joy
Remains to him unknown—
The Banquet of Abstemiousness
Defaces that of Wine—

Within its reach, though yet ungrasped
Desire’s perfect Goal—
No nearer—lest the Actual—
Should disentrall thy soul—

892

Who occupies this House?
A Stranger I must judge
Since No one know His Circumstance—
’Tis well the name and age

Are writ upon the Door
Or I should fear to pause
Where not so much as Honest Dog
Approach encourages.

It seems a curious Town—
Some Houses very old,
Some—newly raised this Afternoon,
Were I compelled to build

It should not be among
Inhabitants so still
But where the Birds assemble
And Boys were possible.

Before Myself was born
’Twas settled, so they say,
A Territory for the Ghosts—
And Squirrels, formerly.

Until a Pioneer, as
Settlers often do
Liking the quiet of the Place
Attracted more unto—

And from a Settlement
A Capital has grown
Distinguished for the gravity
Of every Citizen.

The Owner of this House
A Stranger He must be—
Eternity’s Acquaintances
Are mostly so—to me.

1018

Who saw no Sunrise cannot say
The Countenance ’twould be.
Who guess at seeing, guess at loss
Of the Ability.

The Emigrant of Light, it is
Afflicted for the Day.
The Blindness that beheld and blest—
And could not find its Eye.

142

Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled—
And no one made reply.

Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again—
Whose are the beds—the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?

’Tis Daisy, in the shortest—
A little further on—
Nearest the door—to wake the Ist—
Little Leontoden.

’Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster—
Anemone, and Bell—
Bartsia, in the blanket red—
And chubby Daffodil.

Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied—
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.

Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids—
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,
She’s dreaming of the woods!

Then turning from them reverent—
Their bedtime ’tis, she said—
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.

82

Whose cheek is this?
What rosy face
Has lost a blush today?
I found her—”pleiad”—in the woods
And bore her safe away.

Robins, in the tradition
Did cover such with leaves,
But which the cheek—
And which the pall
My scrutiny deceives.

1394

Whose Pink career may have a close
Portentous as our own, who knows?
To imitate these Neighbors fleet
In awe and innocence, were meet.

1258

Who were “the Father and the Son”
We pondered when a child,
And what had they to do with us
And when portentous told

With inference appalling
By Childhood fortified
We thought, at least they are no worse
Than they have been described.

Who are “the Father and the Son”
Did we demand Today
“The Father and the Son” himself
Would doubtless specify—

But had they the felicity
When we desired to know.
We better Friends had been, perhaps,
Than time ensue to be—

We start—to learn that we believe
But once—entirely—
Belief, it does not fit so well
When altered frequently—

We blush, that Heaven if we achieve—
Event ineffable—
We shall have shunned until ashamed
To own the Miracle—

480

“Why do I love” You, Sir?
Because—
The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—
And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He’s Sunrise—and I see—
Therefore—Then—
I love Thee—

248

Why—do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing—too loud?
But—I can say a little “Minor”
Timid as a Bird!

Wouldn’t the Angels try me—
Just—once—more—
Just—see—if I troubled them—
But don’t—shut the door!

Oh, if I—were the Gentleman
In the “White Robe”—
And they—were the little Hand—that knocked—
Could—I—forbid?

462

Why make it doubt—it hurts it so—
So sick—to guess—
So strong—to know—
So brave—upon its little Bed
To tell the very last They said
Unto Itself—and smile—And shake—
For that dear—distant—dangerous—Sake—
But—the Instead—the Pinching fear
That Something—it did do—or dare—
Offend the Vision—and it flee—
And They no more remember me—
Nor ever turn to tell me why—
Oh, Master, This is Misery—

1646

Why should we hurry—why indeed?
When every way we fly
We are molested equally
By immortality.
No respite from the inference
That this which is begun,
Though where its labors lie
A bland uncertainty
Besets the sight
This mighty night—

249

Wild Nights—Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile—the Winds—
To a Heart in port—
Done with the Compass—
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden—
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor—Tonight—
In Thee!

101

Will there really be a “Morning”?
Is there such a thing as “Day”?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called “Morning” lies!

1316

Winter is good—his **** Delights
Italic flavor yield
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World—

Generic as a Quarry
And hearty—as a Rose—
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.

1707

Winter under cultivation
Is as arable as Spring.

1708

Witchcraft has not a Pedigree
’Tis early as our Breath
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death—

1583

Witchcraft was hung, in History,
But History and I
Find all the Witchcraft that we need
Around us, every Day—

500

Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel—
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As ’twere a travelling Mill—

He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose—
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,

Till every spice is tasted—
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres—
And I rejoin my Dog,

And He and I, perplex us
If positive, ’twere we—
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity—

But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye—
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An Exquisite Reply!

90

Within my reach!
I could have touched!
I might have chanced that way!
Soft sauntered thro’ the village—
Sauntered as soft away!
So unsuspected Violets
Within the meadows go—
Too late for striving fingers
That passed, an hour ago!

1607

Within that little Hive
Such Hints of Honey lay
As made Reality a Dream
And Dreams, Reality—

1552

Within thy Grave!
Oh no, but on some other flight—
Thou only camest to mankind
To rend it with Good night—

1330

Without a smile—Without a Throe
A Summer’s soft Assemblies go
To their entrancing end
Unknown—for all the times we met—
Estranged, however intimate—
What a dissembling Friend—

655

Without this—there is nought—
All other Riches be
As is the Twitter of a Bird—
Heard opposite the Sea—

I could not care—to gain
A lesser than the Whole—
For did not this include themself—
As Seams—include the Ball?

I wished a way might be
My Heart to subdivide—
’Twould magnify—the Gratitude—
And not reduce—the Gold—

1431

With Pinions of Disdain
The soul can farther fly
Than any feather specified
in Ornithology—
It wafts this sordid Flesh
Beyond its dull—control
And during its electric gale—
The body is a soul—
instructing by the same—
How little work it be—
To put off filaments like this
for immortality

1709

With sweetness unabated
Informed the hour had come
With no remiss of triumph
The autumn started home

Her home to be with Nature
As competition done
By influential kinsmen
Invited to return—

In supplements of Purple
An adequate repast
In heavenly reviewing
Her residue be past—

209

With thee, in the Desert—
With thee in the thirst—
With thee in the Tamarind wood—
Leopard breathes—at last!

678

Wolfe demanded during dying
“Which obtain the Day”?
“General, the British”—”Easy”
Answered Wolfe “to die”

Montcalm, his opposing Spirit
Rendered with a smile
“Sweet” said he “my own Surrender
Liberty’s beguile”