I never saw a moor,
I never saw the sea;
Yet now I know how the heather looks,
And what a wave must be.
Death is a Dialogue between
The Spirit and the Dust.
You're right—"the way is narrow"—
And "difficult the Gate"—
Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning's flagons up
A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish,--some way back,
I could not fix the year,
Absence disembodies—so does Death
Hiding individuals from the Earth
The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
Apparently with no surprise,
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play,
In accidental power.