Nature, the gentlest mother,Impatient of no child,The feeblest or the waywardest, —Her admonition mild
In forest and the hillBy traveller is heard,Restraining rampant squirrelOr too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,A summer afternoon, —Her household, her assembly;And when the sun goes down
Her voice among the aislesIncites the timid prayerOf the minutest cricket,The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleepShe turns as long awayAs will suffice to light her lamps;Then, bending from the sky
With infinite affectionAnd infiniter care,Her golden finger on her lip,Wills silence everywhere.
Will there really be a morning?Is there such a thing as day?Could I see it from the mountainsIf I were as tall as they?
Has it feet like water-lilies?Has it feathers like a bird?Is it brought from famous countriesOf which I have never heard?
Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!Oh, some wise man from the skies!Please to tell a little pilgrimWhere the place called morning lies!
At half-past three a single birdUnto a silent skyPropounded but a single termOf cautious melody.
At half-past four, experimentHad subjugated test,And lo! her silver principleSupplanted all the rest.
At half-past seven, elementNor implement was seen,And place was where the presence was,Circumference between.
The day came slow, till five o'clock,Then sprang before the hillsLike hindered rubies, or the lightA sudden musket spills.
The purple could not keep the east,The sunrise shook from fold,Like breadths of topaz, packed a night,The lady just unrolled.
The happy winds their timbrels took;The birds, in docile rows,Arranged themselves around their prince(The wind is prince of those).
The orchard sparkled like a Jew, —How mighty 't was, to stayA guest in this stupendous place,The parlor of the day!
The sun just touched the morning;The morning, happy thing,Supposed that he had come to dwell,And life would be all spring.
She felt herself supremer, —A raised, ethereal thing;Henceforth for her what holiday!Meanwhile, her wheeling king
Trailed slow along the orchardsHis haughty, spangled hems,Leaving a new necessity, —The want of diadems!
The morning fluttered, staggered,Felt feebly for her crown, —Her unanointed foreheadHenceforth her only one.
The robin is the oneThat interrupts the mornWith hurried, few, express reportsWhen March is scarcely on.
The robin is the oneThat overflows the noonWith her cherubic quantity,An April but begun.
The robin is the oneThat speechless from her nestSubmits that home and certaintyAnd sanctity are best.
From cocoon forth a butterflyAs lady from her doorEmerged — a summer afternoon —Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,Except to stray abroadOn miscellaneous enterpriseThe clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seenContracting in a fieldWhere men made hay, then struggling hardWith an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,To Nowhere seemed to goIn purposeless circumference,As 't were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,And flower that zealous blew,This audience of idlenessDisdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,And men that made the hay,And afternoon, and butterfly,Extinguished in its sea.
Before you thought of spring,Except as a surmise,You see, God bless his suddenness,A fellow in the skiesOf independent hues,A little weather-worn,Inspiriting habilimentsOf indigo and brown.
With specimens of song,As if for you to choose,Discretion in the interval,With gay delays he goesTo some superior treeWithout a single leaf,And shouts for joy to nobodyBut his seraphic self!
An altered look about the hills;A Tyrian light the village fills;A wider sunrise in the dawn;A deeper twilight on the lawn;A print of a vermilion foot;A purple finger on the slope;A flippant fly upon the pane;A spider at his trade again;An added strut in chanticleer;A flower expected everywhere;An axe shrill singing in the woods;Fern-odors on untravelled roads, —All this, and more I cannot tell,A furtive look you know as well,And Nicodemus' mysteryReceives its annual reply.
"Whose are the little beds," I asked,"Which in the valleys lie?"Some shook their heads, and others smiled,And no one made reply.
"Perhaps they did not hear," I said;"I will inquire again.Whose are the beds, the tiny bedsSo thick upon the plain?"
"'T is daisy in the shortest;A little farther on,Nearest the door to wake the first,Little leontodon.
"'T is iris, sir, and aster,Anemone and bell,Batschia in the blanket red,And chubby daffodil."
Meanwhile at many cradlesHer busy foot she plied,Humming the quaintest lullabyThat ever rocked a child.
"Hush! Epigea wakens! —The crocus stirs her lids,Rhodora's cheek is crimson, —She's dreaming of the woods."
Then, turning from them, reverent,"Their bed-time 't is," she said;"The bumble-bees will wake themWhen April woods are red."
Pigmy seraphs gone astray,Velvet people from Vevay,Belles from some lost summer day,Bees' exclusive coterie.Paris could not lay the foldBelted down with emerald;Venice could not show a cheekOf a tint so lustrous meek.Never such an ambuscadeAs of brier and leaf displayedFor my little damask maid.I had rather wear her graceThan an earl's distinguished face;I had rather dwell like herThan be Duke of ExeterRoyalty enough for meTo subdue the bumble-bee!
To hear an oriole singMay be a common thing,Or only a divine.
It is not of the birdWho sings the same, unheard,As unto crowd.
The fashion of the earAttireth that it hearIn dun or fair.
So whether it be rune,Or whether it be none,Is of within;
The "tune is in the tree,"The sceptic showeth me;"No, sir! In thee!"
One of the ones that Midas touched,Who failed to touch us all,Was that confiding prodigal,The blissful oriole.
So drunk, he disavows itWith badinage divine;So dazzling, we mistake himFor an alighting mine.
A pleader, a dissembler,An epicure, a thief, —Betimes an oratorio,An ecstasy in chief;
The Jesuit of orchards,He cheats as he enchantsOf an entire attarFor his decamping wants.
The splendor of a Burmah,The meteor of birds,Departing like a pageantOf ballads and of bards.
I never thought that Jason soughtFor any golden fleece;But then I am a rural man,With thoughts that make for peace.
But if there were a Jason,Tradition suffer meBehold his lost emolumentUpon the apple-tree.
I dreaded that first robin so,But he is mastered now,And I 'm accustomed to him grown, —He hurts a little, though.
I thought if I could only liveTill that first shout got by,Not all pianos in the woodsHad power to mangle me.
I dared not meet the daffodils,For fear their yellow gownWould pierce me with a fashionSo foreign to my own.
I wished the grass would hurry,So when 't was time to see,He 'd be too tall, the tallest oneCould stretch to look at me.
I could not bear the bees should come,I wished they 'd stay awayIn those dim countries where they go:What word had they for me?
They 're here, though; not a creature failed,No blossom stayed awayIn gentle deference to me,The Queen of Calvary.
Each one salutes me as he goes,And I my childish plumesLift, in bereaved acknowledgmentOf their unthinking drums.
A route of evanescenceWith a revolving wheel;A resonance of emerald,A rush of cochineal;And every blossom on the bushAdjusts its tumbled head, —The mail from Tunis, probably,An easy morning's ride.
The skies can't keep their secret!They tell it to the hills —The hills just tell the orchards —And they the daffodils!
A bird, by chance, that goes that waySoft overheard the whole.If I should bribe the little bird,Who knows but she would tell?
I think I won't, however,It's finer not to know;If summer were an axiom,What sorcery had snow?
So keep your secret, Father!I would not, if I could,Know what the sapphire fellows do,In your new-fashioned world!
Who robbed the woods,The trusting woods?The unsuspecting treesBrought out their burrs and mossesHis fantasy to please.He scanned their trinkets, curious,He grasped, he bore away.What will the solemn hemlock,What will the fir-tree say?
Two butterflies went out at noonAnd waltzed above a stream,Then stepped straight through the firmamentAnd rested on a beam;
And then together bore awayUpon a shining sea, —Though never yet, in any port,Their coming mentioned be.
If spoken by the distant bird,If met in ether seaBy frigate or by merchantman,Report was not to me.
I started early, took my dog,And visited the sea;The mermaids in the basementCame out to look at me,
And frigates in the upper floorExtended hempen hands,Presuming me to be a mouseAground, upon the sands.
But no man moved me till the tideWent past my simple shoe,And past my apron and my belt,And past my bodice too,
And made as he would eat me upAs wholly as a dewUpon a dandelion's sleeve —And then I started too.
And he — he followed close behind;I felt his silver heelUpon my ankle, — then my shoesWould overflow with pearl.
Until we met the solid town,No man he seemed to know;And bowing with a mighty lookAt me, the sea withdrew.
Arcturus is his other name, —I'd rather call him star!It's so unkind of scienceTo go and interfere!
I pull a flower from the woods, —A monster with a glassComputes the stamens in a breath,And has her in a class.
Whereas I took the butterflyAforetime in my hat,He sits erect in cabinets,The clover-bells forgot.
What once was heaven, is zenith now.Where I proposed to goWhen time's brief masquerade was done,Is mapped, and charted too!
What if the poles should frisk aboutAnd stand upon their heads!I hope I 'm ready for the worst,Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the kingdom of Heaven 's changed!I hope the children thereWon't be new-fashioned when I come,And laugh at me, and stare!
I hope the father in the skiesWill lift his little girl, —Old-fashioned, naughty, everything, —Over the stile of pearl!
An awful tempest mashed the air,The clouds were gaunt and few;A black, as of a spectre's cloak,Hid heaven and earth from view.
The creatures chuckled on the roofsAnd whistled in the air,And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth.And swung their frenzied hair.
The morning lit, the birds arose;The monster's faded eyesTurned slowly to his native coast,And peace was Paradise!
An everywhere of silver,With ropes of sandTo keep it from effacingThe track called land.
A bird came down the walk:He did not know I saw;He bit an angle-worm in halvesAnd ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dewFrom a convenient grass,And then hopped sidewise to the wallTo let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyesThat hurried all abroad, —They looked like frightened beads, I thought;He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger; cautious,I offered him a crumb,And he unrolled his feathersAnd rowed him softer home
Than oars divide the ocean,Too silver for a seam,Or butterflies, off banks of noon,Leap, splashless, as they swim.
A narrow fellow in the grassOccasionally rides;You may have met him, — did you not,His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,A spotted shaft is seen;And then it closes at your feetAnd opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,A floor too cool for corn.Yet when a child, and barefoot,I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lashUnbraiding in the sun, —When, stooping to secure it,It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's peopleI know, and they know me;I feel for them a transportOf cordiality;
But never met this fellow,Attended or alone,Without a tighter breathing,And zero at the bone.
The mushroom is the elf of plants,At evening it is not;At morning in a truffled hutIt stops upon a spot
As if it tarried always;And yet its whole careerIs shorter than a snake's delay,And fleeter than a tare.
'T is vegetation's juggler,The germ of alibi;Doth like a bubble antedate,And like a bubble hie.
I feel as if the grass were pleasedTo have it intermit;The surreptitious scionOf summer's circumspect.
Had nature any outcast face,Could she a son contemn,Had nature an Iscariot,That mushroom, — it is him.
There came a wind like a bugle;It quivered through the grass,And a green chill upon the heatSo ominous did passWe barred the windows and the doorsAs from an emerald ghost;The doom's electric moccasonThat very instant passed.On a strange mob of panting trees,And fences fled away,And rivers where the houses ranThe living looked that day.The bell within the steeple wildThe flying tidings whirled.How much can comeAnd much can go,And yet abide the world!
A spider sewed at nightWithout a lightUpon an arc of white.If ruff it was of dameOr shroud of gnome,Himself, himself inform.Of immortalityHis strategyWas physiognomy.
I know a place where summer strivesWith such a practised frost,She each year leads her daisies back,Recording briefly, "Lost."
But when the south wind stirs the poolsAnd struggles in the lanes,Her heart misgives her for her vow,And she pours soft refrains
Into the lap of adamant,And spices, and the dew,That stiffens quietly to quartz,Upon her amber shoe.
The one that could repeat the summer dayWere greater than itself, though heMinutest of mankind might be.And who could reproduce the sun,At period of going down —The lingering and the stain, I mean —When Orient has been outgrown,And Occident becomes unknown,His name remain.
The wind tapped like a tired man,And like a host, "Come in,"I boldly answered; entered thenMy residence within
A rapid, footless guest,To offer whom a chairWere as impossible as handA sofa to the air.
No bone had he to bind him,His speech was like the pushOf numerous humming-birds at onceFrom a superior bush.
His countenance a billow,His fingers, if he pass,Let go a music, as of tunesBlown tremulous in glass.
He visited, still flitting;Then, like a timid man,Again he tapped — 't was flurriedly —And I became alone.
Nature rarer uses yellowThan another hue;Saves she all of that for sunsets, —Prodigal of blue,
Spending scarlet like a woman,Yellow she affordsOnly scantly and selectly,Like a lover's words.
The leaves, like women, interchangeSagacious confidence;Somewhat of nods, and somewhat ofPortentous inference,
The parties in both casesEnjoining secrecy, —Inviolable compactTo notoriety.
How happy is the little stoneThat rambles in the road alone,And does n't care about careers,And exigencies never fears;Whose coat of elemental brownA passing universe put on;And independent as the sun,Associates or glows alone,Fulfilling absolute decreeIn casual simplicity.
It sounded as if the streets were running,And then the streets stood still.Eclipse was all we could see at the window,And awe was all we could feel.
By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,To see if time was there.Nature was in her beryl apron,Mixing fresher air.
The rat is the concisest tenant.He pays no rent, —Repudiates the obligation,On schemes intent.
Balking our witTo sound or circumvent,Hate cannot harmA foe so reticent.
Neither decreeProhibits him,Lawful asEquilibrium.
Frequently the woods are pink,Frequently are brown;Frequently the hills undressBehind my native town.
Oft a head is crestedI was wont to see,And as oft a crannyWhere it used to be.
And the earth, they tell me,On its axis turned, —Wonderful rotationBy but twelve performed!
The wind begun to rock the grassWith threatening tunes and low, —He flung a menace at the earth,A menace at the sky.
The leaves unhooked themselves from treesAnd started all abroad;The dust did scoop itself like handsAnd throw away the road.
The wagons quickened on the streets,The thunder hurried slow;The lightning showed a yellow beak,And then a livid claw.
The birds put up the bars to nests,The cattle fled to barns;There came one drop of giant rain,And then, as if the hands
That held the dams had parted hold,The waters wrecked the sky,But overlooked my father's house,Just quartering a tree.
South winds jostle them,Bumblebees come,Hover, hesitate,Drink, and are gone.
Butterflies pauseOn their passage Cashmere;I, softly plucking,Present them here!
Where ships of purple gently tossOn seas of daffodil,Fantastic sailors mingle,And then — the wharf is still.
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,And leaves the shreds behind;Oh, housewife in the evening west,Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,You dropped an amber thread;And now you 've littered all the EastWith duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,And still the aprons fly,Till brooms fade softly into stars —And then I come away.
Like mighty footlights burned the redAt bases of the trees, —The far theatricals of dayExhibiting to these.
'T was universe that did applaudWhile, chiefest of the crowd,Enabled by his royal dress,Myself distinguished God.
Bring me the sunset in a cup,Reckon the morning's flagons up,And say how many dew;Tell me how far the morning leaps,Tell me what time the weaver sleepsWho spun the breadths of blue!
Write me how many notes there beIn the new robin's ecstasyAmong astonished boughs;How many trips the tortoise makes,How many cups the bee partakes, —The debauchee of dews!
Also, who laid the rainbow's piers,Also, who leads the docile spheresBy withes of supple blue?Whose fingers string the stalactite,Who counts the wampum of the night,To see that none is due?
Who built this little Alban houseAnd shut the windows down so closeMy spirit cannot see?Who 'll let me out some gala day,With implements to fly away,Passing pomposity?
Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,Leaping like leopards to the sky,Then at the feet of the old horizonLaying her spotted face, to die;
Stooping as low as the otter's window,Touching the roof and tinting the barn,Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, —And the juggler of day is gone!
Farther in summer than the birds,Pathetic from the grass,A minor nation celebratesIts unobtrusive mass.
No ordinance is seen,So gradual the grace,A pensive custom it becomes,Enlarging loneliness.
Antiquest felt at noonWhen August, burning low,Calls forth this spectral canticle,Repose to typify.
Remit as yet no grace,No furrow on the glow,Yet a druidic differenceEnhances nature now.
As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away, —Too imperceptible, at last,To seem like perfidy.
A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature, spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.
The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone, —A courteous, yet harrowing grace,As guest who would be gone.
And thus, without a wing,Or service of a keel,Our summer made her light escapeInto the beautiful.
It can't be summer, — that got through;It 's early yet for spring;There 's that long town of white to crossBefore the blackbirds sing.
It can't be dying, — it's too rouge, —The dead shall go in white.So sunset shuts my question downWith clasps of chrysolite.
The gentian weaves her fringes,The maple's loom is red.My departing blossomsObviate parade.
A brief, but patient illness,An hour to prepare;And one, below this morning,Is where the angels are.
It was a short procession, —The bobolink was there,An aged bee addressed us,And then we knelt in prayer.
We trust that she was willing, —We ask that we may be.Summer, sister, seraph,Let us go with thee!
In the name of the beeAnd of the butterflyAnd of the breeze, amen!
God made a little gentian;It tried to be a roseAnd failed, and all the summer laughed.But just before the snowsThere came a purple creatureThat ravished all the hill;And summer hid her forehead,And mockery was still.The frosts were her condition;The Tyrian would not comeUntil the North evoked it."Creator! shall I bloom?"
Besides the autumn poets sing,A few prosaic daysA little this side of the snowAnd that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,A few ascetic eyes, —Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.
Still is the bustle in the brook,Sealed are the spicy valves;Mesmeric fingers softly touchThe eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,My sentiments to share.Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,Thy windy will to bear!
It sifts from leaden sieves,It powders all the wood,It fills with alabaster woolThe wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even faceOf mountain and of plain, —Unbroken forehead from the eastUnto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,It wraps it, rail by rail,Till it is lost in fleeces;It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem, —The summer's empty room,Acres of seams where harvests were,Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,As ankles of a queen, —Then stills its artisans like ghosts,Denying they have been.
No brigadier throughout the yearSo civic as the jay.A neighbor and a warrior too,With shrill felicity
Pursuing winds that censure usA February day,The brother of the universeWas never blown away.
The snow and he are intimate;I 've often seen them playWhen heaven looked upon us allWith such severity,
I felt apology were dueTo an insulted sky,Whose pompous frown was nutrimentTo their temerity.
The pillow of this daring headIs pungent evergreens;His larder — terse and militant —Unknown, refreshing things;
His character a tonic,His future a dispute;Unfair an immortalityThat leaves this neighbor out.
Let down the bars, O Death!The tired flocks come inWhose bleating ceases to repeat,Whose wandering is done.
Thine is the stillest night,Thine the securest fold;Too near thou art for seeking thee,Too tender to be told.
Going to heaven!I don't know when,Pray do not ask me how, —Indeed, I 'm too astonishedTo think of answering you!Going to heaven! —How dim it sounds!And yet it will be doneAs sure as flocks go home at nightUnto the shepherd's arm!
Perhaps you 're going too!Who knows?If you should get there first,Save just a little place for meClose to the two I lost!
The smallest "robe" will fit me,And just a bit of "crown;"For you know we do not mind our dressWhen we are going home.
I 'm glad I don't believe it,For it would stop my breath,And I 'd like to look a little moreAt such a curious earth!I am glad they did believe itWhom I have never foundSince the mighty autumn afternoonI left them in the ground.
At least to pray is left, is left.O Jesus! in the airI know not which thy chamber is, —I 'm knocking everywhere.
Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,And maelstrom in the sea;Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,Hast thou no arm for me?
Step lightly on this narrow spot!The broadest land that growsIs not so ample as the breastThese emerald seams enclose.
Step lofty; for this name is toldAs far as cannon dwell,Or flag subsist, or fame exportHer deathless syllable.
Morns like these we parted;Noons like these she rose,Fluttering first, then firmer,To her fair repose.
Never did she lisp it,And 't was not for me;She was mute from transport,I, from agony!
Till the evening, nearing,One the shutters drew —Quick! a sharper rustling!And this linnet flew!
A death-blow is a life-blow to someWho, till they died, did not alive become;Who, had they lived, had died, but whenThey died, vitality begun.
I read my sentence steadily,Reviewed it with my eyes,To see that I made no mistakeIn its extremest clause, —
The date, and manner of the shame;And then the pious formThat "God have mercy" on the soulThe jury voted him.
I made my soul familiarWith her extremity,That at the last it should not beA novel agony,
But she and Death, acquainted,Meet tranquilly as friends,Salute and pass without a hint —And there the matter ends.
I have not told my garden yet,Lest that should conquer me;I have not quite the strength nowTo break it to the bee.
I will not name it in the street,For shops would stare, that I,So shy, so very ignorant,Should have the face to die.
The hillsides must not know it,Where I have rambled so,Nor tell the loving forestsThe day that I shall go,
Nor lisp it at the table,Nor heedless by the wayHint that within the riddleOne will walk to-day!
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,Like petals from a rose,When suddenly across the JuneA wind with fingers goes.
They perished in the seamless grass, —No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless listCan summon every face.
The only ghost I ever sawWas dressed in mechlin, — so;He wore no sandal on his foot,And stepped like flakes of snow.His gait was soundless, like the bird,But rapid, like the roe;His fashions quaint, mosaic,Or, haply, mistletoe.
His conversation seldom,His laughter like the breezeThat dies away in dimplesAmong the pensive trees.Our interview was transient,—Of me, himself was shy;And God forbid I look behindSince that appalling day!
Some, too fragile for winter winds,The thoughtful grave encloses, —Tenderly tucking them in from frostBefore their feet are cold.
Never the treasures in her nestThe cautious grave exposes,Building where schoolboy dare not lookAnd sportsman is not bold.
This covert have all the childrenEarly aged, and often cold, —Sparrows unnoticed by the Father;Lambs for whom time had not a fold.
As by the dead we love to sit,Become so wondrous dear,As for the lost we grapple,Though all the rest are here, —
In broken mathematicsWe estimate our prize,Vast, in its fading ratio,To our penurious eyes!
Death sets a thing significantThe eye had hurried by,Except a perished creatureEntreat us tenderly
To ponder little workmanshipsIn crayon or in wool,With "This was last her fingers did,"Industrious until
The thimble weighed too heavy,The stitches stopped themselves,And then 't was put among the dustUpon the closet shelves.
A book I have, a friend gave,Whose pencil, here and there,Had notched the place that pleased him, —At rest his fingers are.
Now, when I read, I read not,For interrupting tearsObliterate the etchingsToo costly for repairs.
I went to heaven, —'T was a small town,Lit with a ruby,Lathed with down.Stiller than the fieldsAt the full dew,Beautiful as picturesNo man drew.People like the moth,Of mechlin, frames,Duties of gossamer,And eider names.Almost contentedI could be'Mong such uniqueSociety.
Their height in heaven comforts not,Their glory nought to me;'T was best imperfect, as it was;I 'm finite, I can't see.
The house of supposition,The glimmering frontierThat skirts the acres of perhaps,To me shows insecure.
The wealth I had contented me;If 't was a meaner size,Then I had counted it untilIt pleased my narrow eyes
Better than larger values,However true their show;This timid life of evidenceKeeps pleading, "I don't know."
There is a shame of noblenessConfronting sudden pelf, —A finer shame of ecstasyConvicted of itself.
A best disgrace a brave man feels,Acknowledged of the brave, —One more "Ye Blessed" to be told;But this involves the grave.
Triumph may be of several kinds.There 's triumph in the roomWhen that old imperator, Death,By faith is overcome.
There 's triumph of the finer mindWhen truth, affronted long,Advances calm to her supreme,Her God her only throng.
A triumph when temptation's bribeIs slowly handed back,One eye upon the heaven renouncedAnd one upon the rack.
Severer triumph, by himselfExperienced, who can passAcquitted from that naked bar,Jehovah's countenance!
Pompless no life can pass away;The lowliest careerTo the same pageant wends its wayAs that exalted here.How cordial is the mystery!The hospitable pallA "this way" beckons spaciously, —A miracle for all!
I noticed people disappeared,When but a little child, —Supposed they visited remote,Or settled regions wild.
Now know I they both visitedAnd settled regions wild,But did because they died, — a factWithheld the little child!
I had no cause to be awake,My best was gone to sleep,And morn a new politeness took,And failed to wake them up,
But called the others clear,And passed their curtains by.Sweet morning, when I over-sleep,Knock, recollect, for me!
I looked at sunrise once,And then I looked at them,And wishfulness in me aroseFor circumstance the same.
'T was such an ample peace,It could not hold a sigh, —'T was Sabbath with the bells divorced,'T was sunset all the day.
So choosing but a gownAnd taking but a prayer,The only raiment I should need,I struggled, and was there.
If anybody's friend be dead,It 's sharpest of the themeThe thinking how they walked alive,At such and such a time.
Their costume, of a Sunday,Some manner of the hair, —A prank nobody knew but them,Lost, in the sepulchre.
How warm they were on such a day:You almost feel the date,So short way off it seems; and now,They 're centuries from that.
How pleased they were at what you said;You try to touch the smile,And dip your fingers in the frost:When was it, can you tell,
You asked the company to tea,Acquaintance, just a few,And chatted close with this grand thingThat don't remember you?
Past bows and invitations,Past interview, and vow,Past what ourselves can estimate, —That makes the quick of woe!
Our journey had advanced;Our feet were almost comeTo that odd fork in Being's road,Eternity by term.
Our pace took sudden awe,Our feet reluctant led.Before were cities, but between,The forest of the dead.
Retreat was out of hope, —Behind, a sealed route,Eternity's white flag before,And God at every gate.
Ample make this bed.Make this bed with awe;In it wait till judgment breakExcellent and fair.
Be its mattress straight,Be its pillow round;Let no sunrise' yellow noiseInterrupt this ground.
On such a night, or such a night,Would anybody careIf such a little figureSlipped quiet from its chair,
So quiet, oh, how quiet!That nobody might knowBut that the little figureRocked softer, to and fro?
On such a dawn, or such a dawn,Would anybody sighThat such a little figureToo sound asleep did lie
For chanticleer to wake it, —Or stirring house below,Or giddy bird in orchard,Or early task to do?
There was a little figure plumpFor every little knoll,Busy needles, and spools of thread,And trudging feet from school.
Playmates, and holidays, and nuts,And visions vast and small.Strange that the feet so precious chargedShould reach so small a goal!
Essential oils are wrung:The attar from the roseIs not expressed by suns alone,It is the gift of screws.
The general rose decays;But this, in lady's drawer,Makes summer when the lady liesIn ceaseless rosemary.
I lived on dread; to those who knowThe stimulus there isIn danger, other impetusIs numb and vital-less.
As 't were a spur upon the soul,A fear will urge it whereTo go without the spectre's aidWere challenging despair.
If I should die,And you should live,And time should gurgle on,And morn should beam,And noon should burn,As it has usual done;If birds should build as early,And bees as bustling go, —One might depart at optionFrom enterprise below!'T is sweet to know that stocks will standWhen we with daisies lie,That commerce will continue,And trades as briskly fly.It makes the parting tranquilAnd keeps the soul serene,That gentlemen so sprightlyConduct the pleasing scene!
Her final summer was it,And yet we guessed it not;If tenderer industriousnessPervaded her, we thought
A further force of lifeDeveloped from within, —When Death lit all the shortness up,And made the hurry plain.
We wondered at our blindness, —When nothing was to seeBut her Carrara guide-post, —At our stupidity,
When, duller than our dulness,The busy darling lay,So busy was she, finishing,So leisurely were we!
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,One need not be a house;The brain has corridors surpassingMaterial place.
Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal ghost,Than an interior confrontingThat whiter host.
Far safer through an Abbey gallop,The stones achase,Than, moonless, one's own self encounterIn lonesome place.
Ourself, behind ourself concealed,Should startle most;Assassin, hid in our apartment,Be horror's least.
The prudent carries a revolver,He bolts the door,O'erlooking a superior spectreMore near.
She died, — this was the way she died;And when her breath was done,Took up her simple wardrobeAnd started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gateThe angels must have spied,Since I could never find herUpon the mortal side.
Wait till the majesty of DeathInvests so mean a brow!Almost a powdered footmanMight dare to touch it now!
Wait till in everlasting robesThis democrat is dressed,Then prate about "preferment"And "station" and the rest!
Around this quiet courtierObsequious angels wait!Full royal is his retinue,Full purple is his state!
A lord might dare to lift the hatTo such a modest clay,Since that my Lord, "the Lord of lords"Receives unblushingly!
Went up a year this evening!I recollect it well!Amid no bells nor bravosThe bystanders will tell!Cheerful, as to the village,Tranquil, as to repose,Chastened, as to the chapel,This humble tourist rose.Did not talk of returning,Alluded to no timeWhen, were the gales propitious,We might look for him;Was grateful for the rosesIn life's diverse bouquet,Talked softly of new speciesTo pick another day.
Beguiling thus the wonder,The wondrous nearer drew;Hands bustled at the moorings —The crowd respectful grew.Ascended from our visionTo countenances new!A difference, a daisy,Is all the rest I knew!
Taken from men this morning,Carried by men to-day,Met by the gods with bannersWho marshalled her away.
One little maid from playmates,One little mind from school, —There must be guests in Eden;All the rooms are full.
Far as the east from even,Dim as the border star, —Courtiers quaint, in kingdoms,Our departed are.
What inn is thisWhere for the nightPeculiar traveller comes?Who is the landlord?Where the maids?Behold, what curious rooms!No ruddy fires on the hearth,No brimming tankards flow.Necromancer, landlord,Who are these below?
It was not death, for I stood up,And all the dead lie down;It was not night, for all the bellsPut out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my fleshI felt siroccos crawl, —Nor fire, for just my marble feetCould keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all;The figures I have seenSet orderly, for burial,Reminded me of mine,
As if my life were shavenAnd fitted to a frame,And could not breathe without a key;And 't was like midnight, some,
When everything that ticked has stopped,And space stares, all around,Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos, — stopless, cool, —Without a chance or spar,Or even a report of landTo justify despair.