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The Murmur of a Bee A Witchcraft—yieldeth me— If any ask me why— ‘Twere easier to die— Than tell— The Red upon the Hill Taketh away my will— If anybody sneer— Take care—for God is here— That’s all. The Breaking…

The Mountains—grow unnoticed— Their Purple figures rise Without attempt—Exhaustion— Assistance—or Applause— In Their Eternal Faces The Sun—with just delight Looks long—and last—and golden— For fellowship—at night—

The Mountain sat upon the Plain In his tremendous Chair— His observation omnifold, His inquest, everywhere— The Seasons played around his knees Like Children round a sire— Grandfather of the Days is He Of Dawn, the Ancestor—

The morns are meeker than they were— The nuts are getting brown— The berry’s cheek is plumper— The Rose is out of town. The Maple wears a gayer scarf— The field a scarlet gown— Lest I should be old fashioned…

The Morning after Woe— ‘Tis frequently the Way— Surpasses all that rose before— For utter Jubilee— As Nature did not care— And piled her Blossoms on— And further to parade a Joy Her Victim stared upon— The Birds declaim their…

The Moon was but a Chin of Gold A Night or two ago— And now she turns Her perfect Face Upon the World below— Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde— Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn— Her Eye unto the Summer Dew…

The Moon is distant from the Sea— And yet, with Amber Hands— She leads Him—docile as a Boy— Along appointed Sands— He never misses a Degree— Obedient to Her Eye He comes just so far—toward the Town— Just so far—goes…

The Months have ends—the Years—a knot— No Power can untie To stretch a little further A Skein of Misery— The Earth lays back these tired lives In her mysterious Drawers— Too tenderly, that any doubt An ultimate Repose— The manner…

The Missing All—prevented Me From missing minor Things. If nothing larger than a World’s Departure from a Hinge— Or Sun’s extinction, be observed— ‘Twas not so large that I Could lift my Forehead from my work For Curiosity.

The Martyr Poets—did not tell— But wrought their Pang in syllable— That when their mortal name be numb— Their mortal fate—encourage Some— The Martyr Painters—never spoke— Bequeathing—rather—to their Work— That when their conscious fingers cease— Some seek in Art—the Art…