By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host Who took the Flag today Can tell the definition So clear of Victory
As he defeated--dying-- On whose forbidden ear The distant strains of triumph Burst agonized and clear!
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
"Hope" is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stopsat all
And sweetestin the Galeis heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm
I've heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest Sea Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumbof Me.
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain (280) I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading--treading--till it seemed That Sense was breaking through--
And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum-- Kept beating--beating--till I thought My Mind was going numb--
And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space--began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here--
And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down-- And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing--then-- After great pain, a formal feeling comes -- After great pain, a formal feeling comes -- The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs The stiff Heart questions, was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round -- Of Ground, or Air, or Ought -- A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone --
This is the Hour of Lead -- Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow -- First -- Chill -- then Stupor -- then the letting go
Stopping in the woods in the snow Walking down the woods, so cold, so thick. I can see a little village, but they can't see me me through the heavy night.
I'm walking and walking in the heavy snow, trying to find my way to get some hay.
Walked past a really big lake, so cold so frozen. I lost my way, I couldn't find help but I knew help would find me.
The man came out of his small village, looking so big and so warm. He spotted me, and took me inside.
So glad out of the heavy, cold snow. Inside near a fire place, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot coco.
Departmental An ant on the tablecloth Ran into a dormant moth Of many times his size. He showed not the least surprise. His business wasn't with such. He gave it scarcely a touch, And was off on his duty run. Yet if he encountered one Of the hive's enquiry squad Whose work is to find out God And the nature of time and space, He would put him onto the case. Ants are a curious race; One crossing with hurried tread The body of one of their dead Isn't given a moment's arrest- Seems not even impressed. But he no doubt reports to any With whom he crosses antennae, And they no doubt report To the higher-up at court. Then word goes forth in Formic: 'Death's come to Jerry McCormic, Our selfless forager Jerry. Will the special Janizary Whose office it is to bury The dead of the commissary Go bring him home to his people. Lay him in state on a sepal. Wrap him for shroud in a petal. Embalm him with ichor of nettle. This is the word of your Queen.' And presently on the scene Appears a solemn mortician; And taking formal position, With feelers calmly atwiddle, Seizes the dead by the middle, And heaving him high in air, Carries him out of there. No one stands round to stare. It is nobody else's affair It couldn't be called ungentle But how thoroughly departmental