A nearness to Tremendousness—
An Agony procures—
Affliction ranges Boundlessness—
Vicinity to Laws

Contentment's quiet Suburb—
Affliction cannot stay
In Acres—Its Location
Is Illocality—

Just a few of the roses we gathered from the Isar
Are fallen, and their mauve-red petals on the cloth
Float like boats on a river, while other
Roses are ready to fall, reluctant and loth.

She laughs at me across the table, saying
I am beautiful. I look at the rumpled young roses
And suddenly realize, in them as in me,
How lovely is the self this day discloses.

Ah! the morning is grey;
And what kind of day
Is it likely to be?
You must look up and see
What the chimney-tops say.

If the smoke from the mouth
Of the chimney goes south,
'Tis the north wind that blows
From the country of snows;
Look out for rough weather.
The cold and the north wind
Are always together.

If the smoke pouring forth
From the chimney goes north,
A mild day it will be,
A warm time we shall see;
The south wind is blowing
From lands where the orange
And fig trees are growing.

Ah me! I mind me long agone,
Once on a savage snow-bound height
We pigmies pierced a king. Upon
His bare and upreared breast till night
We rained red arrows and we rained
Hot lead. Then up the steep and slow
He passed; yet ever still disdained
To strike, or even look below.
We found him, high above the clouds next morn
And dead, in all his silent, splendid scorn.

So leave me, as the edge of night
Comes on, a little time to pass,
Or pray. For steep the stony-height
And torn by storm, and bare of grass
Or blossom. And when I lie dead

In Jacob he hath not seen evil or guile
Nor in Israel perversness his truth to defile
Their Lord & their God these good tidings doth bring
& behold in their camps are the shouts of a king
God brought them from Egypt from bondage & ill
& he is as strong as a unicorn still
There is no enchantment can Jacob alarm
& Israel there's no divinations to harm
Of Jacob & Israel said it shall be
What hath God wrought that his people are free
Behold like a lion the people shall rise
& like a young lion the nations surprise

When we, in kind embracements, had agreed
To keep a royal banquet on our lips,
How soon have we another feast decreed,
And how, at parting, have we mourned by fits!
Eftsoons, in absence have we wailed much more
Till those void hours of intermission
Were spent, that we might revel as before.
How have we bribed time for expedition!
And when remitted to our former love-plays,
How have we, overweening in delight,
Accused the father sexton of the days
That then with eagle's wings he took his flight.
But now, old man, fly on as swift as thought,

When, from the tower whence I derive love's heaven,
Mine eyes, quick pursuivants, the sight attached
Of thee, all splendent, I, as out of sweven,
Myself gan rouse, like one from sleep awaked.
Coveting eyes controlled my slowly gait,
And wooed desire to wing my feet for flight;
Yet unresolved, fear did with eyes debate,
And said 'twas but tralucence of the light!
But when approached where thou thy stand didst take,
At gaze I stood, like deer, when 'ghast he spies
Some white in thick. Ah, then the arrow strake
Thorough mine heart, sent from thy tiller eyes.

First all the host of Raphael
In liveries of gold,
Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm
The spinning spheres are rolled,—
The Seraphs of the morning calm
Whose hearts are never cold.

He shall be born a spirit,
Part of the soul that yearns,
The core of vital gladness
That suffers and discerns,
The stir that breaks the budding sheath
When the green spring returns,—

The gist of power and patience
Hid in the plasmic clay,
The calm behind the senses,
The passionate essay
To make his wise and lovely dream
Immortal on a day.

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple's colouring,
Nor a brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gates on mighty hinges rolled.

The king is he, who void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be sway'd by smile or frown;
Nor for all the treasure cares,
That mine conceals, or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver,
Bosom'd in a glassy river.

What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunderlight,
Nor the storm that rushes out
To snatch the shivering waves about,

Upon the slippery tops of humane State,
The guilded Pinnacles of Fate,
Let others proudly stand, and for a while
The giddy danger to beguile,
With Joy and with disdain look down on all,
Till their Heads turn, and they fall.
Me, O ye Gods, on Earth, or else so near
That I no fall to Earth may fear,
And, O ye Gods, at a good distance seat
From the long Ruins of the Great,
Here wrapt in th' Arms of Quiet let me lye;
Quiet, Companion of Obscurity.
Here let my life, with as much silence slide,
As time that measures it does glide.