Untitled
It might be lonelierWithout the Loneliness--
I'm so accustomed to my fate--
Perhaps the Other--Peace--
Would interrupt the Dark--
And crowd the little Room--
Too scant--by Cubits--to contain
The Sacrament--of Him--
I am not used to Hope--
It might intrude upon --
Its sweet parade - blaspheme the place--
Ordained to Suffering--
It might be easier
To fail--with Land in Sight--
Than gain--My Blue Penensula--
To perish--of Delight--
"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--
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--
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb--of me.