To see her is a picture- to hear her is a tune- to know her an Intemperance as innocent as June- to know her not-Affliction- to own her for a Friend a warmth as near as if the Sun were shining in your Hand.
Nature is what we know yet have not art to say. So impotent our wisdom is to her simplicity.
She dealt her pretty words like Blades -- How glittering they shone -- And every One unbared a Nerve Or wantoned with a Bone -- She never deemed -- she hurt -- That -- is not Steel's Affair -- A vulgar grimace in the Flesh -- How ill the Creatures bear -- To Ache is human -- not polite -- The Film upon the eye Mortality's old Custom -- Just locking up -- to Die.
They say that Time assuages - Time never did assuage - An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age - Time is a Test of Trouble - But not a Remedy - If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady.
She died--this was the way she died; and when her breath was done, took up her simple wardrobe and started for the sun. Her little figure at the gate the angels must have spied, since I could never find her upon the mortal side.
This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me,-- the simple news that Nature told, with tender majesty. Her message is committed to hands I cannot see; for love of her, sweet countrymen, judge tenderly of me!
It's all I have to bring today this and my heart beside this and my heart and all the fields and all the meadows wide be sure to count should I forget someone the sum could tell this and my heart and all the bees which in the clovers dwell.
Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge --the Palate of the Hate departs â€“ if any would avenge. Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- it is a faded Meat -- anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'tis starving makes it fat.