The Martyr PoetsThe Martyr Poets — did not tell — But wrought their Pang in syllable — That when their mortal name be numb — Their mortal fate — encourage Some — The Martyr Painters — never spoke — Bequeathing — rather — to their WorkThat when their conscious fingers cease — Some seek in Art — the Art of Peace —

Her breast is fit for pearls,But I was not a "Diver" - Her brow is fit for thronesBut I have not a crest,Her heart is fit for home-I- a Sparrow- build thereSweet of twigs and twineMy perennial nest.

Tell the truth, but tell it slant.

Il sempre è fatto di attimi.

Immortal is an ample wordWhen what we need is byBut when it leaves us for a time'Tis a necessity.Of Heaven above the firmest proofWe fundamental knowExcept for its marauding HandIt had been Heaven below.

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away.

To my quick ear the Leaves — conferred —The Bushes — they were Bells —I could not find a PrivacyFrom Nature's sentinels —In Cave if I presumed to hideThe Walls — begun to tell —Creation seemed a mighty Crack —To make me visible —

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business,—just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there?

I am afraid to own a Body—I am afraid to own a Soul—