There is a Shame of Nobleness - Confronting Sudden Pelf - A finer Shame of Extasy - Convicted of Itself - A best Disgrace - a Brave Man feels - Acknowledged - of the Brave - One More - "Ye Blessed" - to be told - But this - involves the Grave.
The waters chased him as he fled, Not daring look behind; A billow whispered in his Ear, "Come home with me, my friend; My parlor is of shriven glass, My pantry has a fish For every palate in the Year", - To this revolting bliss The object floating at his side Made no distinct reply.
The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan; Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man. If nature will not tell the tale Jehovah told to her Can human nature not proceed Without a listener?
Admonished by her buckled lips Let every prater be The only secret neighbors keep Is Immortality.
The parasol is the umbrella's daughter, And associates with a fan While her father abuts the tempest And abridges the rain. The former assists a siren In her serene display; But her father is borne and honored, And borrowed to this day.
The most important population Unnoticed dwell. They have a heaven each instant Not any hell. Their names, unless you know them, 'There useless tell. Of bumble bees and other nations The grass is full.
The mob within the heart Police cannot suppress The riot given at the first Is authorized as peace Uncertified of scene Or signified of sound But growing like a hurricane In a congenial ground.
The joy that has no stem nor core, Nor seed that we can sow, Is edible to longing, But ablative to show. By fundamental palates Those products are preferred Impregnable to transit And patented by pod.
The grave my little cottage is, Where "Keeping house" for thee I make my parlor orderly And lay the marble tea. For two divided, briefly, A cycle, it may be, Till everlasting life unite In strong society.
The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear; Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year. And then, that we have followed them, We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect.
That it will never come again Is what makes life so sweet. Believing what we dont believe Does not exhilarate. That if it be, it be at best An ablative estate - This instigates an appetite Precisely opposite.