A word is dead When it is said, Some say. I say it just Begins to live That day.
After great pain, a formal feeling comes.
Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb.
Our Summer made her light escapeInto the Beautiful.
As imperceptibly as Grief The Summer lapsed away.
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go.
Reeling – thro' endless summer days – From inns of molten Blue.
The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend – Or the most agonizing Spy – An Enemy – could send.
And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all.
So go your Way – and I’ll go Mine – No fear you’ll miss the Road.
This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me.
Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul.
Were I with thee Wild nights should be Our luxury!
Though I than He – may longer live He longer must – than I – For I have but the power to kill, Without – the power to die.