LIFE
CXXXVI
I STEPPED from plank to plank So slow and cautiously;The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea.
I knew not but the next Would be my final inch,—This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience.
CXXXVII
ONE day is there of the series Termed Thanksgiving day,Celebrated part at table, Part in memory.
Neither patriarch nor pussy, I dissect the play;Seems it, to my hooded thinking, Reflex holiday.
Had there been no sharp subtraction From the early sum,Not an acre or a caption Where was once a room,
Not a mention, whose small pebble Wrinkled any bay,—Unto such, were such assembly, ’Twere Thanksgiving day.
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