Стихотворения

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254

`Hope` is a thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without words —
And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is 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 crumb — of Me.

* * *

303

The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shut the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —

Unmoved-she notes the Chariots-pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor is kneeling
Upon her Mat —

I've known her — from an ample nation
Choose One —
Then- close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —

* * *

313

I should have been too glad, I see —
Too lifted — for the scant degree
Of Life's penurious Round;
My little Circuit would have shamed
This new Circumference — have blamed
The homelier time behind.

I should have been too saved — I see —
Too rescued — Fear too dim to me
That I could spell the Prayer
I knew so perfect — yesterday —
That Scalding one — «Sabachthani» —
Recited fluent — here —

Earth would have been too much — I see —
And Heaven- not enough for me —
I should have had the Joy

Without the Fear — to justify —
The Palm — without the Calvary;
So, Saviour, Crucify —

Defeat whets Victory — they say —
The Reefs — in old Gethsemane —
Endear the Coast beyond!
'T is Beggars — Banquets best define;
'T is parching — vitalizes Wine, —
«Faith» bleats — to understand!

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371

A precious-mouldering pleasure-'t is —
To meet an Antique Book,
In just the Dress his Century wore —