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Years I had been from home,
And now, before the door
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before
Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business, - just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?
I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.
I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.
I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.
I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.
His Bill an Auger is
1034
His Bill an Auger is,
His Head, a Cap and Frill.
He laboreth at every Tree
A Worm, His utmost Goal.
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
649
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead
Came the Darker WayCarriages-
Be Sure-and Guests-too-
But for Holiday
'Tis more pitiful Endeavor
Than did Loaded Sea
O'er the Curls attempt to caper
It had cast away-
Never Bride had such Assembling-
Never kinsmen kneeled
To salute so fair a Forehead-
Garland be indeed-
Fitter Feet-of Her before us-
Than whatever Brow
Art of Snow-or Trick of Lily
Possibly bestow
Of Her Father-Whoso ask Her-
He shall seek as high
As the Palm-that serve the Desert-
To obtain the Sky
Distance-be Her only Motion-
If 'tis Nay-or YesAcquiescence-
or Demurral-
Whosoever guess
He-must pass the Crystal Angle
That obscure Her faceHe-
must have achieved in person
Equal Paradise-
Her-last Poems
312
Her-"last Poems"Poets-
endedSilver-
perished-with her Tongue-
Not on Record-bubbled other,
Flute-or Woman-
So divine-
Not unto its Summer-Morning
Robin-uttered Half the Tune-
Gushed too free for the Adoring-
From the Anglo-FlorentineLate-
the Praise'
Tis dull-conferring
On the Head too High to CrownDiadem-
or Ducal Showing-
Be its Grave-sufficient signNought-
that We-No Poet's KinsmanSuffocate-
with easy woe-
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom-
Put Her down-in Italy?
Her breast is fit for pearls
84
Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a "Diver"-
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for homeI-
a Sparrow-build there
Sweet of twigs and twine
My perennial nest.
Her Grace is all she has
810
Her Grace is all she has-
And that, so least displays-
One Art to recognize, must be,
Another Art, to praise.
Heaven is what I cannot reach!
Heaven is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopelss hang,
That 'heaven' is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud,
The interdicted ground
Behind the hill, the house behind, -There
Paradise is found!
Heaven has different Signs—to me
"Heaven" has different Signs—to me—
Sometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place—
And when again, at Dawn,
A mighty look runs round the World
And settles in the Hills—
An Awe if it should be like that
Upon the Ignorance steals—
The Orchard, when the Sun is on—
The Triumph of the Birds
When they together Victory make—
Some Carnivals of Clouds—
The Rapture of a finished Day—
Returning to the West—
All these—remind us of the place
That Men call "paradise"—
Itself be fairer—we suppose—
But how Ourself, shall be
Adorned, for a Superior Grace—
Not yet, our eyes can see—
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