Стихотворения

A privilege — I think —

His venerable Hand to take —
And warming in our own —
A passage back- or two- to make
To Times when he- was young —

His quaint opinions — to inspect —
His thoughts to ascertain
On Themes concern our mutual mind —
The Literature of Man —

What interested Scholars- most —
What Competitions ran
When Plato — was a Certainty —
And Sophocles — a Man —

When Sappho — was a living Girl —
And Beatrice wore
The Gown that Dante- deified —
Facts Centuries before

He traverses — familiar —
As One should come to Town
And tell you all your Dreams-were true —
He lived — where Dreams were born —

His presence is Enchantment,
You beg him not to go —
Old Volumes shake their Vellum Heads
And tantalize — just so —

409

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

They dropped like Flakes —
Tthey dropped like Stars —
Like Petals from a Rose —
When suddenly across the June
A wind with fingers — goes —

They perished in the Seamless Grass, —
No eye could find the place —
But God can summon every face
On his Repealless — List

.

* * *

470

I am alive — I guess —
The Branches on my Hand
Are full of Morning Glory —
And at my finger's end —
The Carmine — tingles warm —
And if I hold a Glass
Across my Mouth — it blurs it —
Physician's — proof of Breath —

I am alive — because
I am not in a Room —
The Parlor — Commonly — it is —
So Visitors may come —
And lean — and view it sidewise —
And add` How cold — it grew' —
And Was it conscious — when it stepped
In Immortality?

I am alive — because
I do not own a House —
Entitled to myself — precise —
And fitting to no one else —

And marked my Girlhood's name —
So Visitors may know
Which Door is mine — and not mistake —
And try another Key —