1376
Dreams are the subtle Dower
That make us rich an Hour—
Then fling us poor
Out of the purple Door
Into the Precinct raw
Possessed before—
321
There’s not a charge to me
Like that old measure
in the Boughs
That phraseless Melody –
The Wind does – working
like a Hand
Whose fingers brush the Sky –
[…]
Inheritance it is – to us –
Beyond the Art to Earn –
[…]
And inner than the Bone –
[…]
1764
The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
The maddest noise that grows, —
The birds, they make it in the spring,
At night’s delicious close.
[…]
It makes us think of all the dead
[…]
By separation’s sorcery
Made cruelly more dear.
[…]
