922
Those who have been in the Grave the longest—
Those who begin Today—
Equally perish from our Practise—
Death is the other way—
Foot of the Bold did least attempt it—
It—is the White Exploit—
Once to achieve, annuls the power
Once to communicate—
499
Those fair—fictitious People—
The Women—plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime—
The Men of Ivory—
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
Who stay upon the Wall
In Everlasting Keepsake—
Can Anybody tell?
We trust—in places perfecter—
Inheriting Delight
Beyond our faint Conjecture—
Our dizzy Estimate—
Remembering ourselves, we trust—
Yet Blesseder—than We—
Through Knowing—where We only hope—
Receiving—where we—pray—
Of Expectation—also—
Anticipating us
822
This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone
Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men—
How adequate unto itself
Its properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery.
Adventure most unto itself
The Soul condemned to be—
Attended by a single Hound
Its own identity.
858
This Chasm, Sweet, upon my life
I mention it to you,
When Sunrise through a fissure drop
The Day must follow too.
If we demur, its gaping sides
Disclose as 'twere a Tomb
Ourself am lying straight wherein
The Favorite of Doom.
When it has just contained a Life
Then, Darling, it will close
And yet so bolder every Day
So turbulent it grows
I'm tempted half to stitch it up
With a remaining Breath
I should not miss in yielding, though
To Him, it would be Death—
474
They put Us far apart—
As separate as Sea
And Her unsown Peninsula—
We signified "These see"—
They took away our Eyes—
They thwarted Us with Guns—
"I see Thee" each responded straight
Through Telegraphic Signs—
With Dungeons—They devised—
But through their thickest skill—
And their opaquest Adamant—
Our Souls saw—just as well—
They summoned Us to die—
With sweet alacrity
We stood upon our stapled feet—
Condemned—but just—to see—
Permission to recant—
There's been a death in the opposite house
As lately as to-day.
I know it by the numb look
Such houses have alway.
The neighbors rustle in and out,
The doctor drives away.
A window opens like a pod,
Abrupt, mechanically;
Somebody flings a mattress out,--
The children hurry by;
They wonder if It died on that,--
I used to when a boy.
The minister goes stiffly in
As if the house were his,
And he owned all the mourners now,
And little boys besides;
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are--
None may teach it--Any--
'Tis the Seal Despair--
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air--
When it comes, the Landscape listens--
Shadows--hold their breath--
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death--
I was not aware of the moment
when I first crossed the threshold of this life.
What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery
like a bud in the forest at midnight!
When in the morning I looked upon the light
I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,
that the inscrutable without name and form
had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.
Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me.
And because I love this life,
i
The women tell me, 'Man, you're old;
don't be so bold.
Look into a mirror
to make it clearer:
your hair
ain't there.'
But I can't see what lies
above my eyes.
I do see more reason to play the game,
when Death takes aim.
ii
If wealth with all its money
could make us never die,
I'd give my life to earning,
and then, when Death came by,
I'd pay him and forget him.
But there's no way to spend
yourself into forever.
1731
BEAUTIFUL face of a child,
Lighted with laughter and glee,
Mirthful, and tender, and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee!
1744
Beautiful face of a youth,
As an eagle poised to fly forth
To the old land loyal of truth,
To the hills and the sounds of the North:
Fair face, daring and proud,
Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,
Rests on the grace of thy brow!
1773
Cruel and angry face,
