Part 3

And then, to go to sleep; And then, if it should be The will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die.

IN A LIBRARY.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old;

What interested scholars most, What competitions ran When Plato was a certainty. And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl, And Beatrice wore The gown that Dante deified. Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar, As one should come to town And tell you all your dreams were true; He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so.

XI.

Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. 'T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain. XII.

I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled.

Brazil? He twirled a button, Without a glance my way: "But, madam, is there nothing else That we can show to-day?"

XIII.

EXCLUSION.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing At her low gate; Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation Choose one; Then close the valves of her attention Like stone.

XIV.

THE SECRET.

Some things that fly there be, -- Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy.

Some things that stay there be, -- Grief, hills, eternity: Nor this behooveth me.

There are, that resting, rise. Can I expound the skies? How still the riddle lies!

XV.

THE LONELY HOUSE.

I know some lonely houses off the road A robber 'd like the look of, -- Wooden barred, And windows hanging low, Inviting to A portico, Where two could creep: One hand the tools, The other peep To make sure all's asleep. Old-fashioned eyes, Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night, With just a clock, -- But they could gag the tick, And mice won't bark; And so the walls don't tell, None will.

A pair of spectacles ajar just stir -- An almanac's aware. Was it the mat winked, Or a nervous star? The moon slides down the stair To see who's there.