Category Poem

As far from pity, as complaint— As cool to speech—as stone— As numb to Revelation As if my Trade were Bone—   As far from time—as History— As near yourself—Today— As Children, to the Rainbow’s scarf— Or Sunset’s Yellow play…

As Everywhere of Silver With Ropes of Sand To keep it from effacing The Track called Land.

As Children bid the Guest “Good Night” And then reluctant turn— My flowers raise their pretty lips— Then put their nightgowns on.   As children caper when they wake Merry that it is Morn— My flowers from a hundred cribs…

As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear— As for the lost we grapple Tho’ all the rest are here—   In broken mathematics We estimate our prize Vast—in its fading ration To our penurious eyes!

“Arcturus” is his other name— I’d rather call him “Star.” It’s very mean of Science To go and interfere!   I slew a worm the other day— A “Savant” passing by Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”! “Oh Lord—how frail are we”!   I…

Apparently with no surprise, To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play, In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on. The sun proceeds unmoved, To measure off another day, For an approving God.

Apology for Her Be rendered by the Bee— Herself, without a Parliament Apology for Me.

Answer July— Where is the Bee— Where is the Blush— Where is the Hay?   Ah, said July— Where is the Seed— Where is the Bud— Where is the May— Answer Thee—Me—   Nay—said the May— Show me the Snow—…

Angels, in the early morning May be seen the Dews among, Stooping—plucking—smiling—flying— Do the Buds to them belong?   Angels, when the sun is hottest May be seen the sands among, Stooping—plucking—sighing—flying— Parched the flowers they bear along.