There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of Cathedral tunes.

This is the Hour of Lead --
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow --
First --Chill --then Stupor --then the letting go --.

What fortitude the Soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming Foot--
The opening of a Door.

His Labor is a Chant --
His Idleness --a Tune --
Oh, for a Bee's experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon!

If I shouldn't be alive
When the robins come,
Give the one in red cravat
A memorial crumb.