Category Poem

The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung— There seemed to rise a Tune From Miniature Creatures Accompanying the Sun— Far Psalteries of Summer— Enamoring the Ear They never yet did satisfy— Remotest—when most fair The Sun shone whole at intervals— Then Half—then…

The Tint I cannot take—is best— The Color too remote That I could show it in Bazaar— A Guinea at a sight— The fine—impalpable Array— That swaggers on the eye Like Cleopatra’s Company— Repeated—in the sky— The Moments of Dominion…

The thought beneath so slight a film Is more distinctly seen, — As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine.

The Test of Love—is Death— Our Lord—”so loved”—it saith— What Largest Lover—hath Another—doth— If smaller Patience—be— Through less Infinity— If Bravo, sometimes swerve— Through fainter Nerve— Accept its Most— And overlook—the Dust— Last—Least— The Cross’—Request—

The sweetest Heresy received That Man and Woman know— Each Other’s Convert— Though the Faith accommodate but Two— The Churches are so frequent— The Ritual—so small— The Grace so unavoidable— To fail—is Infidel—

The Sunset stopped on Cottages Where Sunset hence must be For treason not of His, but Life’s, Gone Westerly, Today— The Sunset stopped on Cottages Where Morning just begun— What difference, after all, Thou mak’st Thou supercilious Sun?

The Sunrise runs for Both— The East—Her Purple Troth Keeps with the Hill— The Noon unwinds Her Blue Till One Breadth cover Two— Remotest—still— Nor does the Night forget A Lamp for Each—to set— Wicks wide away— The North—Her blazing…

The Sun—just touched the Morning— The Morning—Happy thing— Supposed that He had come to dwell— And Life would all be Spring! She felt herself supremer— A Raised—Ethereal Thing! Henceforth—for Her—What Holiday! Meanwhile—Her wheeling King— Trailed—slow—along the Orchards— His haughty—spangled Hems—…

The Sun kept stooping—stooping—low! The Hills to meet him rose! On his side, what Transaction! On their side, what Repose! Deeper and deeper grew the stain Upon the window pane— Thicker and thicker stood the feet Until the Tyrian Was…

The Sun kept setting—setting—still No Hue of Afternoon— Upon the Village I perceived From House to House ’twas Noon— The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—still No Dew upon the Grass— But only on my Forehead stopped— And wandered in my Face— My…