We play at Paste—
Till qualified, for Pearl—
Then, drop the Paste—
And deem ourself a fool—

The Shapes— though— were similar—
And our new Hands Learned Gem-Tactics—
Practicing Sands—

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover—
Dips— evades— teases— deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.

One need not be a Chamber— to be Haunted—
One need not be a House—
The Brain has Corridors— surpassing
Material Place—

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting
External Ghost
Than its interior Confronting—
That Cooler Host.

Far Safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a'chase—
Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter—
In lonesome Place—

Ourself behind ourself, concealed—
Should startle most—
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror's least.

The Body— borrows a Revolver—
He bolts the Door—
O'erlooking a superior spectre—
Or More—

A precious— mouldering pleasure— 'tis—
To meet an Antique Book—
In just the Dress his Century wore—
A privilege— I think—

His venerable Hand to take—
And warming in our own—
A passage back— or two— to make—
To Times when he— was young—

His quaint opinions— to inspect—
His thought to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind—
The Literature of Man—

What interested Scholars— most—
What Competitions ran—
When Plato— was a Certainty—
And Sophocles— a Man—

When Sappho— was a living Girl—
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante— deified—
Facts Centuries before

He traverses— familiar—
As One should come to Town—
And tell you all your Dreams— were true—
He lived— where Dreams were born—

His presence is Enchantment—
You beg him not to go—
Old Volumes shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize— just so—

What mystery pervades a well!
That water lives so far—
A neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar

Whose limit none have ever seen,
But just his lid of glass—
Like looking every time you please
In an abyss's face!

The grass does not appear afraid,
I often wonder he
Can stand so close and look so bold
At what is awe to me.

Related somehow they may be,
The sedge stands next the sea—
Where he is floorless
And does no timidity betray

But nature is a stranger yet;
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.

To pity those that know her not
Is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get.

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,—
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.

This was a Poet— It is That
Distills amazing sense
From ordinary Meanings—
And Attar so immense

From the familiar species
That perished by the Door—
We wonder it was not Ourselves
Arrested it— before—

Of Pictures, the Discloser—
The Poet— it is He—
Entitles Us— by Contrast—
To ceaseless Poverty—

Of Portion— so unconscious—
The Robbing— could not harm—
Himself— to Him— a Fortune—
Exterior— to Time—

I heard a Fly buzz— when I died—
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air—
Between the Heaves of Storm—

The Eyes around— had wrung them dry—
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset— when the King
Be witnessed— in the Room—

I willed my Keepsakes— Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable— and then it was
There interposed a Fly—

With Blue— uncertain stumbling Buzz—
Between the light— and me—
And then the Windows failed— and then
I could not see to see—

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove— He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess— in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather— He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
The only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet— only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling in the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice— in the Ground—

Since then— 'tis Centuries— and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity—