And as the light divided the dark

Thorough with living swords

So shalt thou pierce the distant age

With adamantine words.

* * *

When devils bite

A damned parasite

Strikes at their throat & stings them home

* * *

Comfort with a purring cat

Prosperity in a white hat

* * *

I cannot find a place so lonely

To harbour thee & me only

I cannot find a nook so deep

So sheltered may suffice to keep

The ever glowing festival

When thou & I to each are all

* * *

This shining hour is an edifice

Which the Omnipotent cannot rebuild

* * *

The sparrow is rich in her nest

The bee has her desire

The lover in his love is blest

The poet in his brain of fire

* * *

Bended to fops who bent to him

Surface with surfaces did swim

And in the fashionable crowd

None more obsequious heartless bowed

‘Sorrow! Sorrow!’ the Angels cried

‘Is this dear nature’s manly pride!

Call hither thy mortal enemy

Make him glad thy fall to see.’

* * *

Elizabeth Hoar

Almost I am tempted to essay

For sympathetic eyes the portraiture

Of the good angels that environ me.

My sister is a Greek in mind & face

And well embodies to these latest years

The truth of those high sculptors old who drew

In marble or in bronze, on vase or frieze

The perfect forms of Pallas or the Muse;

Forms in simplicity complete

And beauty of the soul disdaining art.

So bright, so positive, so much itself,

Yet so adapted to the work it wrought

It drew true love, but was complete alone.

She seemed to commune with herself, & say,

I cannot stoop to custom & the crowd,

For either I will marry with a star,

Or I will pick threads in a factory.

So perfect in her action, one would say,

She condescended if she added speech.

Her look was sympathy, & though she spoke

Better than all the rest, she did not speak

Worthy of her. She read in many books,

And loved the Greek as ’t were her mother tongue

She knew the value of the passing day

Thought it no mark of virtue to be scornful

Or cry for better company, but held

Each day a solid good; never mistook

The fashionable judgment for her own.

So keen perception that no judge or scribe

Could vie with her unerring estimate.

When through much silence & delay she spoke,

It was the Mind’s own oracle, through joy

And love of truth or beauty so perceived:

Never a poor return on self.

* * *

Cloud upon cloud

The world is a seeming,

Feigns dying, but dies not,

Corpses rise ruddy,

Follow their funerals.

Seest thou not brother

Drops hate detachment,

And atoms disorder,

How they run into plants,

And grow into beauties.

The darkness will glow,

The solitude sing

* * *

Since the devil hopping on