803
Who court obtain within Himself
Sees every Man a King –
So - Poverty of Monarchy
Is an interior thing –
No Man depose
Whom Fate Ordain –
And Who can add a Crown
To Him who doth continual
Repudiate – his Own
822
This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the oneaware of Death
And that itself alone
Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed to Men –
How adequate unto itself
It’s properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery.
Adventure most unto itself
The soul condemned to be –
Attended by a Single Hound
It’s own Identity.
838
Impossibility, like Wine
Exhilirates the Man
Who tastes it; possibility
Is flavorless – Combine
A Chance’s faintest Incture
And in the former Dram
Enchantment makes ingredient
As certainly as Doom –
875
I stepped from Plank to Plank
A slow an cautious way
The Stars about my Head felt
About my Feet the Sea.
I knew not but the next
Would be my final inch –
This gave me that precarious Gait
Some call Experience.
883
The Poets lights but Lamps –
Themselves – go out –
The Wicks they stimulate –
If vival Light
Inhere as do the Suns –
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference –
925
Struck, was I, nor yet by Lightning –
Lightning – lets away
Power to perceive His Process
Whit Vitality.
Maimed – was I – yet not by Venture –
Stoneof stolid oy –
Nor a Sportsmans’sPeradventure –
Who mine Enemy?
Robbed – was I – intact to Bandit –
Al my Mansion torn –
Sun – withdrawn to Recognition –
Furthest shining – done –
Yet was not the foe – of any –
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me – afraid.
Most – I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
It’s beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me –
Best – at Setting – as is Natures’s –
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other’s eyes.
956
What shall I do when the Summer troubles –
What, when the Rose is ripe –
What when the Eggs fly off in Music
From the Maple Keep?
What shall I do when the Skies a’chirrup
Drop a Tune on me –
When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup
What will become of me?
Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets
And the Berries stare
How can I bear their jocund Faces
Thou from Here, so far?
‘Twouldn’t afflict a Robin –
All his Goods have Wings –
I – do not fly, so wherefore
My Perennial Things?
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