I
Unto my books so good to turn,
I many times thought peace had come
like trains of cars on tracks of plush.

II
Split the lark and you'll find the music;
my cocoon tightens, colors tease
the murmur of a bee.

III
While I was fearing it, it came:
Delight becomes pictorial.
It struck me every day:
I see thee better in the dark.

IV
My Wheel is in the dark --
Much madness is divinest sense,
the soul unto herself,
her grace is all she has.

V
Could I but ride indefinite,
the moon was but a chin of gold.
Not knowing when the dawn will come,
I dreaded that first robin so.

VI
The last night that she lived,
the sun kept setting, setting still;
the murmuring of bees had ceased.

VII
I died for beauty but was scarce;
I lived on dread; to those who know:

we learn in the retreating

as imperceptibly as grief.