Which we call death.

Nothing is lost. Nothing I have of loveliness

Exceeds a minute part

Of my own loveliness when it shall be fulfilled

With Celia’s and all loveliness that lies

In every heart.

All that I have is but the start

And the beginning, the bewildering guess

Of what shall be distilled

Out of my soul by you and you,

Each soul of all souls, till one soul remains

Which every beauty shall imbue

Clean of the differences and pains....

I shall be Celia’s everlastingness.

IX

A little hill among New Hampshire hills

Touches more stars than any height I know.

For there the whole earth—like a single being—fills

And expands with heaven.

It is the hill where Celia used to go

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