Mine Enemy is growing old -- I have at last Revenge -- The Palate of the Hate departs -- If any would avenge Let him be quick -- the Viand flits -- It is a faded Meat -- Anger as soon as fed is dead -- 'Tis starving makes it fat

After great pain, a formal feeling comes — The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs — The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round — Of Ground, or Air, or Ought — A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone — This is the Hour of Lead — Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow — First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

If Aims impel these Astral Ones The ones allowed to know Know that which makes them as forgot As Dawn forgets them now

We outgrow love like other things and put it in a drawer, till it an antique fashion shows like costumes grandsires wore.

I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.

That no Flake of [snow] fall on you or them - is a wish that would be a Prayer, were Emily not a Pagan.

Noon - is the Hinge of Day-.