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The harm of Years is on him — The infamy of Time — Depose him like a Fashion And give Dominion room. Forget his Morning Forces — The Glory of Decay Is a minuter Pageant Than least Vitality.

The grave my little cottage is, Where “Keeping house” for thee I make my parlor orderly And lay the marble tea. For two divided, briefly, A cycle, it may be, Till everlasting life unite In strong society.

The going from a world we know To one a wonder still Is like the child’s adversity Whose vista is a hill, Behind the hill is sorcery And everything unknown, But will the secret compensate For climbing it alone?

The gleam of an heroic Act Such strange illumination The Possible’s slow fuse is lit By the Imagination.

The Gentian has a parched Corolla — Like azure dried ‘Tis Nature’s buoyant juices Beatified — Without a vaunt or sheen As casual as Rain And as benign — When most is part — it comes — Nor isolate it…

The Frost was never seen — If met, too rapid passed, Or in too unsubstantial Team — The Flowers notice first A Stranger hovering round A Symptom of alarm In Villages remotely set But search effaces him Till some retrieveless…

The Frost of Death was on the Pane — “Secure your Flower” said he. Like Sailors fighting with a Leak We fought Mortality. Our passive Flower we held to Sea — To Mountain — To the Sun — Yet even…

The Flake the Wind exasperate More eloquently lie Than if escorted to its Down By Arm of Chivalry.

The first We knew of Him was Death — The second — was — Renown — Except the first had justified The second had not been.

The fascinating chill that music leaves Is Earth’s corroboration Of Ecstasy’s impediment — ‘Tis Rapture’s germination In timid and tumultuous soil A fine — estranging creature — To something upper wooing us But not to our Creator —