The Fingers of the Light
Tapped soft upon the Town
With "I am great and cannot wait
So therefore let me in."

"You're soon," the Town replied,
"My Faces are asleep --
But swear, and I will let you by,
You will not wake them up."

The easy Guest complied
But once within the Town
The transport of His Countenance
Awakened Maid and Man

The Neighbor in the Pool
Upon His Hip elate
Made loud obeisance and the Gnat
Held up His Cup for Light.

The Stimulus, beyond the Grave
His Countenance to see
Supports me like imperial Drams
Afforded Day by Day.

Aurora is the effort
Of the Celestial Face
Unconsciousness of Perfectness
To simulate, to Us.

Dying at my music!
Bubble!  Bubble!
Hold me till the Octave's run!
Quick!  Burst the Windows!
Ritardando!
Phials left, and the Sun!

There is no Silence in the Earth -- so silent
As that endured
Which uttered, would discourage Nature
And haunt the World.

Bind me -- I still can sing --
Banish -- my mandolin
Strikes true within --

Slay -- and my Soul shall rise
Chanting to Paradise --
Still thine.

The first We knew of Him was Death --
The second -- was -- Renown --
Except the first had justified
The second had not been.

Falsehood of Thee could I suppose
'Twould undermine the Sill
To which my Faith pinned Block by Block
Her Cedar Citadel.

How still the Bells in Steeples stand
Till swollen with the Sky
They leap upon their silver Feet
In frantic Melody!

I was a Phoebe -- nothing more --
A Phoebe -- nothing less --
The little note that others dropt
I fitted into place --

I dwelt too low that any seek --
Too shy, that any blame --
A Phoebe makes a little print
Upon the Floors of Fame --

Up Life's Hill with my my little Bundle
If I prove it steep --
If a Discouragement withhold me --
If my newest step

Older feel than the Hope that prompted --
Spotless be from blame
Heart that proposed as Heart that accepted
Homelessness, for Home --

She rose as high as His Occasion
Then sought the Dust --
And lower lay in low Westminster
For Her brief Crest --

Which is best?  Heaven --
Or only Heaven to come
With that old Codicil of Doubt?
I cannot help esteem

The "Bird within the Hand"
Superior to the one
The "Bush" may yield me
Or may not
Too late to choose again.

Too scanty 'twas to die for you,
The merest Greek could that.
The living, Sweet, is costlier --
I offer even that --

The Dying, is a trifle, past,
But living, this include
The dying multifold -- without
The Respite to be dead.

Did We abolish Frost
The Summer would not cease --
If Seasons perish or prevail
Is optional with Us --

Were it but Me that gained the Height --
Were it but They, that failed!
How many things the Dying play
Might they but live, they would!

The Hills in Purple syllables
The Day's Adventures tell
To little Groups of Continents
Just going Home from School.

To die -- without the Dying
And live -- without the Life
This is the hardest Miracle
Propounded to Belief.

Who saw no Sunrise cannot say
The Countenance 'twould be.
Who guess at seeing, guess at loss
Of the Ability.

The Emigrant of Light, it is
Afflicted for the Day.
The Blindness that beheld and blest --
And could not find its Eye.

My Season's furthest Flower --
I tenderer commend
Because I found Her Kinsmanless,
A Grace without a Friend.

Trudging to Eden, looking backward,
I met Somebody's little Boy
Asked him his name -- He lisped me "Trotwood" --
Lady, did He belong to thee?

Would it comfort -- to know I met him --
And that He didn't look afraid?
I couldn't weep -- for so many smiling
New Acquaintance -- this Baby made --