We never know how high we are
Till we are asked to rise
And then if we are true to plan
Our statures touch the skies -
The Heroism we recite
Would be a normal thing
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King.
He ate and drank the precious Words -
His Spirit grew robust -
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was Dust -
He danced along the dingy Days
And this Bequest of Wings
Was but a Book - What Liberty
A loosened Spirit brings.
The Bird her punctual music brings
And lays it in it's place -
It's place is in the Human Heart
And in the Heavenly Grace -
What respite from her thrilling toil
Did Beauty ever take -
But Work might be Electric Rest
To those that Magic make.
Witchcraft was hung, in History,
But History and I
Find all the Witchcraft that we need
Around us, Every Day.
The Spirit lasts - but in what mode
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes
Apart, it never talks
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone - is not a Tune
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That make the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
Does that know - now - or does it cease
That which to this is done,
Resuming at a mutual date
With every future one?
Instinct pursues the Adamant,
Exacting this Reply,
Adversity if it may be,
Or wild Prosperity,
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognostic's Push
Could make a Dent thereon.
Forever honored be the Tree
Whose Apple Winterworn
Enticed to Breakfast from the Sky
Two Gabriels Yestermorn -
They registered in Nature's Book
As Robins - Sire and Son -
But Angels have that modest way
To screen them from Renown.
The Clock strikes One
That just struck Two -
Some Schism in the Sum -
A Vagabond from Genesis
Has wrecked the Pendulum.
To see her is a picture
To hear her is a Tune
To know her an intemperance
As innocent as June
By which to be undone
Is dearer than Redemption -
Which never to receive
Makes mockery of melody
It might have been to live.
To see her is a Picture -
To hear her is a Tune -
To know her an Intemperance
As innocent as June -
To know her not - Affliction -
To own her for a Friend
A warmth as near as if the Sun
Were shining in your Hand.
The Heart has many Doors -
I can but knock -
For any sweet "Come in"
Impelled to hark -
Not saddened by repulse,
Repast to me
That somewhere, there exists,
Supremacy.