|
I like a look of Agony,
Because I know it's true--
Men do not sham Convulsion,
Nor simulate, a Throe--
The Eyes glaze once--and that is Death--
Impossible to feign
The Beads upon the Forehead
By homely Anguish strung.
1861 |
Wild Nights--Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile--the Winds--
To a Heart in port--
Done with the Compass--
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden--
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor--Tonight--
In Thee!
1861 |
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are--
None may teach it--Any--
'Tis the Seal Despair--
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air--
When it comes, the Landscape listens--
Shadows--hold their breath--
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death--
1861 |
