Experience is the Angled Road Preferred against the Mind By — Paradox — the Mind itself — Presuming it to lead Quite Opposite — How Complicate The Discipline of Man — Compelling Him to Choose Himself His Preappointed Pain —
'Twas awkward, but it fitted me — An Ancient fashioned Heart — Its only lore — its Steadfastness — In Change — unerudite — It only moved as do the Suns — For merit of Return — Or Birds — confirmed perpetual By Alternating Zone — I only have it not Tonight In its established place — For technicality of Death — Omitted in the Lease —
The Soul's distinct connection With immortality Is best disclosed by Danger Or quick Calamity — As Lightning on a Landscape Exhibits Sheets of Place — Not yet suspected — but for Flash — And Click — and Suddenness.
Too little way the House must lie From every Human Heart That holds in undisputed Lease A white inhabitant — Too narrow is the Right between — Too imminent the chance — Each Consciousness must emigrate And lose its neighbor once —
A doubt if it be Us Assists the staggering Mind In an extremer Anguish Until it footing find. An Unreality is lent, A merciful Mirage That makes the living possible While it suspends the lives.
Absence disembodies — so does Death Hiding individuals from the Earth Superposition helps, as well as love — Tenderness decreases as we prove —
Split the Lark — and you'll find the Music — Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled — Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old. Loose the Flood — you shall find it patent — Gush after Gush, reserved for you — Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas! Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true?
Light is sufficient to itself — If Others want to see It can be had on Window Panes Some Hours in the Day. But not for Compensation — It holds as large a Glow To Squirrel in the Himmaleh Precisely, as to you.
That Distance was between Us That is not of Mile or Main — The Will it is that situates — Equator — never can —
Perhaps you think me stooping I'm not ashamed of that Christ — stooped until He touched the Grave — Do those at Sacrament Commemorative Dishonor Or love annealed of love Until it bend as low as Death Redignified, above?
That is solemn we have ended Be it but a Play Or a Glee among the Garret Or a Holiday Or a leaving Home, or later, Parting with a World We have understood for better Still to be explained.
They ask but our Delight — The Darlings of the Soil And grant us all their Countenance For a penurious smile.
Because the Bee may blameless hum For Thee a Bee do I become List even unto Me. Because the Flowers unafraid May lift a look on thine, a Maid Alway a Flower would be. Nor Robins, Robins need not hide When Thou upon their Crypts intrude So Wings bestow on Me Or Petals, or a Dower of Buzz That Bee to ride, or Flower of Furze I that way worship Thee.
Finding is the first Act The second, loss, Third, Expedition for The "Golden Fleece" Fourth, no Discovery — Fifth, no Crew — Finally, no Golden Fleece — Jason — sham — too.
Given in Marriage unto Thee Oh thou Celestial Host — Bride of the Father and the Son Bride of the Holy Ghost. Other Betrothal shall dissolve — Wedlock of Will, decay — Only the Keeper of this Ring Conquer Mortality —
As Frost is best conceived By force of its Result — Affliction is inferred By subsequent effect — If when the sun reveal, The Garden keep the Gash — If as the Days resume The wilted countenance Cannot correct the crease Or counteract the stain — Presumption is Vitality Was somewhere put in twain.
To my quick ear the Leaves — conferred — The Bushes — they were Bells — I could not find a Privacy From Nature's sentinels — In Cave if I presumed to hide The Walls — begun to tell — Creation seemed a mighty Crack — To make me visible —
A Man may make a Remark — In itself — a quiet thing That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark In dormant nature — lain — Let us deport — with skill — Let us discourse — with care — Powder exists in Charcoal — Before it exists in Fire.
A Door just opened on a street — I — lost — was passing by — An instant's Width of Warmth disclosed — And Wealth — and Company. The Door as instant shut — And I — I — lost — was passing by — Lost doubly — but by contrast — most — Informing — misery —
What shall I do when the Summer troubles — What, when the Rose is ripe — What when the Eggs fly off in Music From the Maple Keep? What shall I do when the Skies a'chirrup Drop a Tune on me — When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup What will become of me? Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets And the Berries stare How can I bear their jocund Faces Thou from Here, so far? 'Twouldn't afflict a Robin — All His Goods have Wings — I — do not fly, so wherefore My Perennial Things?
Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb — Or Dome of Worm — Or Porch of Gnome — Or some Elf's Catacomb?
As One does Sickness over In convalescent Mind, His scrutiny of Chances By blessed Health obscured — As One rewalks a Precipice And whittles at the Twig That held Him from Perdition Sown sidewise in the Crag A Custom of the Soul Far after suffering Identity to question For evidence't has been —
We met as Sparks — Diverging Flints Sent various — scattered ways — We parted as the Central Flint Were cloven with an Adze — Subsisting on the Light We bore Before We felt the Dark — A Flint unto this Day — perhaps — But for that single Spark.
Nature and God — I neither knew Yet Both so well knew me They startled, like Executors Of My identity. Yet Neither told — that I could learn — My Secret as secure As Herschel's private interest Or Mercury's affair —
Be Mine the Doom — Sufficient Fame — To perish in Her Hand!
Each Scar I'll keep for Him Instead I'll say of Gem In His long Absence worn A Costlier one But every Tear I bore Were He to count them o'er His own would fall so more I'll mis sum them.
How well I knew Her not Whom not to know has been A Bounty in prospective, now Next Door to mine the Pain.
Snow beneath whose chilly softness Some that never lay Make their first Repose this Winter I admonish Thee Blanket Wealthier the Neighbor We so new bestow Than thine acclimated Creature Wilt Thou, Austere Snow?
I could not drink it, Sweet, Till You had tasted first, Though cooler than the Water was The Thoughtfullness of Thirst.
The Sun is gay or stark According to our Deed. If Merry, He is merrier — If eager for the Dead Or an expended Day He helped to make too bright His mighty pleasure suits Us not It magnifies Our Freight
They won't frown always — some sweet Day When I forget to tease — They'll recollect how cold I looked And how I just said "Please." Then They will hasten to the Door To call the little Girl Who cannot thank Them for the Ice That filled the lisping full.
On that dear Frame the Years had worn Yet precious as the House In which We first experienced Light The Witnessing, to Us — Precious! It was conceiveless fair As Hands the Grave had grimed Should softly place within our own Denying that they died.
The Lady feeds Her little Bird At rarer intervals — The little Bird would not dissent But meekly recognize The Gulf between the Hand and Her And crumbless and afar And fainting, on Her yellow Knee Fall softly, and adore —
Soto! Explore thyself! Therein thyself shalt find The "Undiscovered Continent" — No Settler had the Mind.
I stepped from Plank to Plank A slow and cautious way The Stars about my Head I felt About my Feet the Sea. I knew not but the next Would be my final inch — This gave me that precarious Gait Some call Experience.
Each Second is the last Perhaps, recalls the Man Just measuring unconsciousness The Sea and Spar between. To fail within a Chance — How terribler a thing Than perish from the Chance's list Before the Perishing!
The Bird must sing to earn the Crumb What merit have the Tune No Breakfast if it guaranty The Rose content may bloom To gain renown of Lady's Drawer But if the Lady come But once a Century, the Rose Superfluous become —
I've none to tell me to but Thee So when Thou failest, nobody. It was a little tie — It just held Two, nor those it held Since Somewhere thy sweet Face has spilled Beyond my Boundary — If things were opposite — and Me And Me it were — that ebbed from Thee On some unanswering Shore — Would'st Thou seek so — just say That I the Answer may pursue Unto the lips it eddied through — So — overtaking Thee —
All I may, if small, Do it not display Larger for the Totalness — 'Tis Economy To bestow a World And withhold a Star — Utmost, is Munificence — Less, tho' larger, poor.
The Poets light but Lamps — Themselves — go out — The Wicks they stimulate — If vital Light Inhere as do the Suns — Each Age a Lens Disseminating their Circumference —
An Everywhere of Silver With Ropes of Sand To keep it from effacing The Track called Land.
Our little Kinsmen — after Rain In plenty may be seen, A Pink and Pulpy multitude The tepid Ground upon. A needless life, it seemed to me Until a little Bird As to a Hospitality Advanced and breakfasted. As I of He, so God of Me I pondered, may have judged, And left the little Angle Worm With Modesties enlarged.
Of Tolling Bell I ask the cause? "A Soul has gone to Heaven" I'm answered in a lonesome tone — Is Heaven then a Prison? That Bells should ring till all should know A Soul had gone to Heaven Would seem to me the more the way A Good News should be given.
These tested Our Horizon — Then disappeared As Birds before achieving A Latitude. Our Retrospection of Them A fixed Delight, But our Anticipation A Dice — a Doubt —
As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away — Too imperceptible at last To seem like Perfidy — A Quietness distilled As Twilight long begun, Or Nature spending with herself Sequestered Afternoon — The Dusk drew earlier in — The Morning foreign shone — A courteous, yet harrowing Grace, As Guest, that would be gone — And thus, without a Wing Or service of a Keel Our Summer made her light escape Into the Beautiful.
As willing lid o'er weary eye The Evening on the Day leans Till of all our nature's House Remains but Balcony
Not all die early, dying young — Maturity of Fate Is consummated equally In Ages, or a Night — A Hoary Boy, I've known to drop Whole statured — by the side Of Junior of Fourscore — 'twas Act Not Period — that died.