I reckon—when I count
At all—
First—Poets—Then the Sun—
Then Summer—
Then the
Heaven of God—
And then—the List is done—

But—looking back—the
First so seems
To Comprehend the Whole—
The Others look a needless Show—
So I write&mdashPoets—All—

Their Summer—lasts a Solid
Year—
They can afford a SunThe East—would deem
Extravagant—
And if the Further Heaven—

Be Beautiful as they prepare
For Those who worship Them—
It is too difficult a Grace—
To justify the Dream—