Peace is a fiction of our Faith --
The Bells a Winter Night
Bearing the Neighbor out of Sound
That never did alight.

And this of all my Hopes
This, is the silent end
Bountiful colored, my Morning rose
Early and sere, its end

Never Bud from a Stem
Stepped with so gay a Foot
Never a Worm so confident
Bored at so brave a Root

I cannot be ashamed
Because I cannot see
The love you offer --
Magnitude
Reverses Modesty

And I cannot be proud
Because a Height so high
Involves Alpine
Requirements
And Services of Snow.

Faith -- is the Pierless Bridge
Supporting what We see
Unto the Scene that We do not --
Too slender for the eye

It bears the Soul as bold
As it were rocked in Steel
With Arms of Steel at either side --
It joins -- behind the Veil

To what, could We presume
The Bridge would cease to be
To Our far, vacillating Feet
A first Necessity.

His Feet are shod with Gauze --
His Helmet, is of Gold,
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid.

His Labor is a Chant --
His Idleness -- a Tune --
Oh, for a Bee's experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!

Love -- is anterior to Life --
Posterior -- to Death --
Initial of Creation, and
The Exponent of Earth --

Only a Shrine, but Mine --
I made the Taper shine --
Madonna dim, to whom all Feet may come,
Regard a Nun --

Thou knowest every Woe --
Needless to tell thee -- so --
But can'st thou do
The Grace next to it -- heal?
That looks a harder skill to us --
Still -- just as easy, if it be thy Will
To thee -- Grant me --
Thou knowest, though, so Why tell thee?

If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain

Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain.

We can but follow to the Sun --
As oft as He go down
He leave Ourselves a Sphere behind --
'Tis mostly -- following --

We go no further with the Dust
Than to the Earthen Door --
And then the Panels are reversed --
And we behold -- no more.

If it had no pencil
Would it try mine --
Worn -- now -- and dull -- sweet,
Writing much to thee.
If it had no word,
Would it make the Daisy,
Most as big as I was,
When it plucked me?

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 --

How the Waters closed above Him
We shall never know --
How He stretched His Anguish to us
That -- is covered too --

Spreads the Pond Her Base of Lilies
Bold above the Boy
Whose unclaimed Hat and Jacket
Sum the History --

Love -- is that later Thing than Death --
More previous -- than Life --
Confirms it at its entrance -- And
Usurps it -- of itself --

Tastes Death -- the first -- to hand the sting
The Second -- to its friend --
Disarms the little interval --
Deposits Him with God --

Then hovers -- an inferior Guard --
Lest this Beloved Charge
Need -- once in an Eternity --
A smaller than the Large --