A Pit - but Heaven over it - And Heaven beside, and Heaven abroad; And yet a Pit - With Heaven over it. To stir would be to slip - To look would be to drop - To dream - to sap the Prop That holds my chances up. Ah! Pit! With Heaven over it!
The depth is all my thought - I dare not ask my feet - 'Twould start us where we sit So straight you'd scarce suspect It was a Pit - with fathoms under it It's Circuit just the same Whose Doom to whom 'Twould start them - We - could tremble - But since we got a Bomb - And held it in our Bosom - Nay - Hold it - it is calm.
A face devoid of love or grace, A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stone Would feel as thoroughly at ease As were they old acquaintances - First time together thrown.
A curious Cloud surprised the Sky, 'Twas like a sheet with Horns; The sheet was Blue - The Antlers Gray - It almost touched the Lawns. So low it leaned - then statelier drew - And trailed like robes away; A Queen adown a satin aisle, Had not the majesty.
With sweetness unabated Informed the hour had come With no remiss of triumph The autumn started home - Her home to be with Nature As competition done By influential kinsmen Invited to return In supplements of Purple An adequate repast In heavenly reviewing Her residue be past.
Witchcraft has not a pedigree 'Tis early as our Breath And mourners meet it going out The moment of our death. La Stregoneria non ha un lignaggio È remota come il Respiro E chi ci piange la incontra mentre sta uscendo Nel momento della nostra morte.
When we have ceased to care The Gift is given For which we gave the Earth And mortgaged Heaven But so declined in worth 'Tis ignominy now To look upon.
Volcanoes be in Sicily And South America I judge from my Geography Volcanoes nearer here A Lava step at any time Am I inclined to climb A Crater I may contemplate Vesuvius at Home.
'Twas comfort in her Dying Room To hear the living Clock A short relief to have the wind Walk boldly up and knock Diversion from the Dying Theme To hear the children play But wrong the more That these could live And this of our's must die.
The Road was lit with Moon and star - The Trees were bright and still - Descried I - by -the distant Light A traveller on a Hill - To magic Perpendiculars Ascending, though terrene - Unknown his shimmering ultimate - But he indorsed the sheen.