XXX

   
WE play at paste,      
Till qualified for pearl,      
Then drop the paste,      
And deem ourself a fool.      
The shapes, though, were similar,           5   
And our new hands      
Learned gem-tactics      
Practising sands.

XXXI

   
I FOUND the phrase to every thought      
I ever had, but one;      
And that defies me,—as a hand      
Did try to chalk the sun      
     
To races nurtured in the dark;—           5   
How would your own begin?      
Can blaze be done in cochineal,      
Or noon in mazarin?

XXXII

   
HOPE is the thing with feathers      
That perches in the soul,      
And sings the tune without the words,      
And never stops at all,      
     
And sweetest in the gale is heard;           5   
And sore must be the storm      
That could abash the little bird      
That kept so many warm.      
     
I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,      
And on the strangest sea;           10   
Yet, never, in extremity,      
It asked a crumb of me.

XXXIII

   
DARE you see a soul at the white heat?      
  Then crouch within the door.      
Red is the fire’s common tint;      
  But when the vivid ore      
     
Has sated flame’s conditions,           5   
  Its quivering substance plays      
Without a color but the light      
  Of unanointed blaze.      
     
Least village boasts its blacksmith,      
  Whose anvil’s even din           10   
Stands symbol for the finer forge      
  That soundless tugs within,      
     
Refining these impatient ores      
  With hammer and with blaze,      
Until the designated light           15   
  Repudiate the forge.

XXXIV

   
WHO never lost, are unprepared      
A coronet to find;      
Who never thirsted, flagons      
And cooling tamarind.      
     
Who never climbed the weary league—           5   
Can such a foot explore      
The purple territories      
On Pizarro’s shore?      
     
How many legions overcome?      
The emperor will say.           10   
How many colors taken      
On Revolution Day?      
     
How many bullets bearest?      
The royal scar hast thou?      
Angels, write “Promoted”           15   
On this soldier’s brow!

XXXV

   
I CAN wade grief,      
Whole pools of it,—      
I ’m used to that.      
But the least push of joy      
Breaks up my feet,           5   
And I tip—drunken.      
Let no pebble smile,      
’T was the new liquor,—      
That was all!      
     
Power is only pain,           10   
Stranded, through discipline,      
Till weights will hang.      
Give balm to giants,      
And they ’ll wilt, like men.      
Give Himmaleh,—           15   
They ’ll carry him!

XXXVI

   
I NEVER hear the word “escape”      
Without a quicker blood,      
A sudden expectation,      
A flying attitude.      
     
I never hear of prisons broad           5   
By soldiers battered down,      
But I tug childish at my bars,—      
Only to fail again!

XXXVII

   
FOR each ecstatic instant      
We must an anguish pay      
In keen and quivering ratio      
To the ecstasy.      
     
For each beloved hour           5   
Sharp pittances of years,      
Bitter contested farthings      
And coffers heaped with tears.

XXXVIII

   
THROUGH the straight pass of suffering      
The martyrs even trod,      
Their feet upon temptation,      
Their faces upon God.      
     
A stately, shriven company;           5   
Convulsion playing round,      
Harmless as streaks of meteor      
Upon a plant’s bound.      
     
Their faith the everlasting troth;      
Their expectation fair;           10   
The needle to the north degree      
Wades so, through polar air.

XXXIX

   
I MEANT to have but modest needs,      
Such as content, and heaven;      
Within my income these could lie,      
And life and I keep even.      
     
But since the last included both,           5   
It would suffice my prayer      
But just for one to stipulate,      
And grace would grant the pair.      
     
And so, upon this wise I prayed,—      
Great Spirit, give to me           10   
A heaven not so large as yours,      
But large enough for me.      
     
A smile suffused Jehovah’s face;      
The cherubim withdrew;      
Grave saints stole out to look at me,           15   
And showed their dimples, too.      
     
I left the place with all my might,—      
My prayer away I threw;      
The quiet ages picked it up,      
And Judgment twinkled, too,           20   
     
That one so honest be extant      
As take the tale for true      
That “Whatsoever you shall ask,      
Itself be given you.”      
     
But I, grown shrewder, scan the skies           25   
With a suspicious air,—      
As children, swindled for the first,      
All swindlers be, infer.