After great pain, a formal feeling comes―The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs―The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?The Feet, mechanical, go round―A Wooden wayOf Ground, or Air, or Ought―Re…

The Poets light but Lamps —Themselves — go out —The Wicks they stimulateIf vital LightInhere as do the Suns —Each Age a LensDisseminating theirCircumference —---詩人は ランプに火を灯すだけ―自身は― 立ち去る―彼の詩が 芯をかき立てるもし そこ…

A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—I’ve heard the Hunter tell—‘Tis but the Ecstasy of death—And then the Brake is still!The Smitten Rock that gushes!The trampled Steel that springs!A Cheek is always redderJust where the Hectic stings!Mirth is th…