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I reckon—when I count it 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—Poets—All

Their Summer—lasts a Solid Year
They can afford a Sun
The 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