Harvestwoman

Whether we write or speak or do but We are ever unapparent. What we Cannot be transfused into word or book.

How yesterday is long ago! The Is a fixed infinite distance from to-day, And bygone things, the first-lived as the last

Like to a ship that storms urge on its course, By its own trials our soul is surer made. The very things that make the voyage Do make it better; its peril is its aid.

I know, I How much it hurts, this With no faith nor

Happy the maimed, the halt, the mad, the blind--All who, stamped separate by curtailing birth, Owe no duty's allegiance to Nor stand a valuing in their scheme of worth! But I, whom Fate, not Nature, did curtail

Should somebody one day knock at your Announcing he's an emissary of mine, Never believe him, nor that it is I; For to knock does not go with my vainglory,

My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man, Of some Egyptian art than Egypt older, Found in some tomb whose rite no guess can scan, Where all things else to coloured dust did moulder.

When I have sense of what to sense appears, Sense is sense ere 'tis mine or mine in me is. When I hear, Hearing, ere I do hear, hears.