1520

The stem of a departed Flower
Has still a silent rank.
The Bearer from an Emerald Court
Of a Despatch of Pink.

1001

The Stimulus, beyond the Grave
His Countenance to see
Supports me like imperial Drams
Afforded Day by Day.

1245

The Suburbs of a Secret
A Strategist should keep,
Better than on a Dream intrude
To scrutinize the Sleep.

1773

The Summer that we did not prize,
Her treasures were so easy
Instructs us by departing now
And recognition lazy—

Bestirs itself—puts on its Coat,
And scans with fatal promptness
For Trains that moment out of sight,
Unconscious of his smartness.

1190

The Sun and Fog contested
The Government of Day—
The Sun took down his Yellow Whip
And drove the Fog away—

871

The Sun and Moon must make their haste—
The Stars express around
For in the Zones of Paradise
The Lord alone is burned—

His Eye, it is the East and West—
The North and South when He
Do concentrate His Countenance
Like Glow Worms, flee away—

Oh Poor and Far—
Oh Hindred Eye
That hunted for the Day—
The Lord a Candle entertains
Entirely for Thee—

1636

The Sun in reigning to the West
Makes not as much of sound
As Cart of man in road below
Adroitly turning round
That Whiffletree of Amethyst

878

The Sun is gay or stark
According to our Deed.
If Merry, He is merrier—
If eager for the Dead

Or an expended Day
He helped to make too bright
His mighty pleasure suits Us not
It magnifies our Freight

1372

The Sun is one—and on the Tare
He doth as punctual call
As on the conscientious Flower
And estimates them all—

232

The Sun—just touched the Morning—
The Morning—Happy thing—
Supposed that He had come to dwell—
And Life would all be Spring!

She felt herself supremer—
A Raised—Ethereal Thing!
Henceforth—for Her—What Holiday!
Meanwhile—Her wheeling King—
Trailed—slow—along the Orchards—
His haughty—spangled Hems—
Leaving a new necessity!
The want of Diadems!

The Morning—fluttered—staggered—
Felt feebly—for Her Crown—
Her unanointed forehead—
Henceforth—Her only One!

692

The Sun kept setting—setting—still
No Hue of Afternoon—
Upon the Village I perceived
From House to House ’twas Noon—

The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—still
No Dew upon the Grass—
But only on my Forehead stopped—
And wandered in my Face—

My Feet kept drowsing—drowsing—still
My fingers were awake—
Yet why so little sound—Myself
Unto my Seeming—make?

How well I knew the Light before—
I could see it now—
’Tis Dying—I am doing—but
I’m not afraid to know—

152

The Sun kept stooping—stooping—low!
The Hills to meet him rose!
On his side, what Transaction!
On their side, what Repose!

Deeper and deeper grew the stain
Upon the window pane—
Thicker and thicker stood the feet
Until the Tyrian

Was crowded dense with Armies—
So gay, so Brigadier—
That I felt martial stirrings
Who once the Cockade wore—

Charged from my chimney corner—
But Nobody was there!

1693

The Sun retired to a cloud
A Woman’s shawl as big—
And then he sulked in mercury
Upon a scarlet log—
The drops on Nature’s forehead stood
Home flew the loaded bees—
The South unrolled a purple fan
And handed to the trees.

710

The Sunrise runs for Both—
The East—Her Purple Troth
Keeps with the Hill—
The Noon unwinds Her Blue
Till One Breadth cover Two—
Remotest—still—

Nor does the Night forget
A Lamp for Each—to set—
Wicks wide away—
The North—Her blazing Sign
Erects in Iodine—
Till Both—can see—

The Midnight’s Dusky Arms
Clasp Hemispheres, and Homes
And so
Upon Her *****—One—
And One upon Her Hem—
Both lie—

950

The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Sunset hence must be
For treason not of His, but Life’s,
Gone Westerly, Today—

The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Morning just begun—
What difference, after all, Thou mak’st
Thou supercilious Sun?

1079

The Sun went down—no Man looked on—
The Earth and I, alone,
Were present at the Majesty—
He triumphed, and went on—

The Sun went up—no Man looked on—
The Earth and I and One
A nameless Bird—a Stranger
Were Witness for the Crown—

387

The sweetest Heresy received
That Man and Woman know—
Each Other’s Convert—
Though the Faith accommodate but Two—

The Churches are so frequent—
The Ritual—so small—
The Grace so unavoidable—
To fail—is Infidel—

1470

The Sweets of Pillage, can be known
To no one but the Thief—
Compassion for Integrity
Is his divinest Grief—

1327

The Symptom of the Gale—
The Second of Dismay—
Between its Rumor and its Face—
Is almost Revelry—

The Houses firmer root—
The Heavens cannot be found—
The Upper Surfaces of things
Take covert in the Ground—

The Mem’ry of the Sun
Not Any can recall—
Although by Nature’s sterling Watch
So scant an interval—

And when the Noise is caught
And Nature looks around—
“We dreamed it”? She interrogates—
“Good Morning”—We propound?

573

The Test of Love—is Death—
Our Lord—”so loved”—it saith—
What Largest Lover—hath
Another—doth—

If smaller Patience—be—
Through less Infinity—
If Bravo, sometimes swerve—
Through fainter Nerve—

Accept its Most—
And overlook—the Dust—
Last—Least—
The Cross’—Request—

1515

The Things that never can come back, are several—
Childhood—some forms of Hope—the Dead—
Though Joys—like Men—may sometimes make a Journey—
And still abide—
We do not mourn for Traveler, or Sailor,
Their Routes are fair—
But think enlarged of all that they will tell us
Returning here—
“Here!” There are typic “Heres”—
Foretold Locations—
The Spirit does not stand—
Himself—at whatsoever Fathom
His Native Land—

1293

The things we thought that we should do
We other things have done
But those peculiar industries
Have never been begun—

The Lands we thought that we should seek
When large enough to run
By Speculation ceded
To Speculation’s Son—

The Heaven, in which we hoped to pause
When Discipline was done
Untenable to Logic
But possibly the one—

210

The thought beneath so slight a film—
Is more distinctly seen—
As laces just reveal the surge—
Or mists—the Apennine

1495

The Thrill came slowly like a Boom for
Centuries delayed
Its fitness growing like the Flood
In sumptuous solitude—
The desolations only missed
While Rapture changed its Dress
And stood amazed before the Change
In ravished Holiness—

627

The Tint I cannot take—is best—
The Color too remote
That I could show it in Bazaar—
A Guinea at a sight—

The fine—impalpable Array—
That swaggers on the eye
Like Cleopatra’s Company—
Repeated—in the sky—

The Moments of Dominion
That happen on the Soul
And leave it with a Discontent
Too exquisite—to tell—

The eager look—on Landscapes—
As if they just repressed
Some Secret—that was pushing
Like Chariots—in the Vest—

The Pleading of the Summer—
That other Prank—of Snow—
That Cushions Mystery with Tulle,
For fear the Squirrels—know.

Their Graspless manners—mock us—
Until the Cheated Eye
Shuts arrogantly—in the Grave—
Another way—to see—

1358

The Treason of an accent
Might Ecstasy transfer—
Of her effacing Fathom
Is no Recoverer—
—
The Treason of an Accent
Might vilify the Joy—
To breathe—corrode the rapture
Of Sanctity to be—

606

The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung—
There seemed to rise a Tune
From Miniature Creatures
Accompanying the Sun—

Far Psalteries of Summer—
Enamoring the Ear
They never yet did satisfy—
Remotest—when most fair

The Sun shone whole at intervals—
Then Half—then utter hid—
As if Himself were optional
And had Estates of Cloud

Sufficient to enfold Him
Eternally from view—
Except it were a whim of His
To let the Orchards grow—

A Bird sat careless on the fence—
One gossipped in the Lane
On silver matters charmed a Snake
Just winding round a Stone—

Bright Flowers slit a Calyx
And soared upon a Stem
Like Hindered Flags—Sweet hoisted—
With Spices—in the Hem—

’Twas more—I cannot mention—
How mean—to those that see—
Vandyke’s Delineation
Of Nature’s—Summer Day!

780

The Truth—is stirless—
Other force—may be presumed to move—
This—then—is best for confidence—
When oldest Cedars swerve—

And Oaks untwist their fists—
And Mountains—feeble—lean—
How excellent a Body, that
Stands without a Bone—

How vigorous a Force
That holds without a Prop—
Truth stays Herself—and every man
That trusts Her—boldly up—

1328

The vastest earthly Day
Is shrunken small
By one Defaulting Face
Behind a Pall—

811

The Veins of other Flowers
The Scarlet Flowers are
Till Nature leisure has for Terms
As “Branch,” and “Jugular.”

We pass, and she abides.
We conjugate Her Skill
While She creates and federates
Without a syllable.

1189

The Voice that stands for Floods to me
Is sterile borne to some—
The Face that makes the Morning mean
Glows impotent on them—

What difference in Substance lies
That what is Sum to me
By other Financiers be deemed
Exclusive Property!

1749

The waters chased him as he fled,
Not daring look behind—
A billow whispered in his Ear,
“Come home with me, my friend—
My parlor is of shriven glass,
My pantry has a fish
For every palate in the Year”—
To this revolting bliss
The object floating at his side
Made no distinct reply.

1481

The way Hope builds his House
It is not with a sill—
Nor Rafter—has that Edifice
But only Pinnacle—

Abode in as supreme
This superficies
As if it were of Ledges smit
Or mortised with the Laws—

636

The Way I read a Letter’s—this—
’Tis first—I lock the Door—
And push it with my fingers—next—
For transport it be sure—

And then I go the furthest off
To counteract a knock—
Then draw my little Letter forth
And slowly pick the lock—

Then—glancing narrow, at the Wall—
And narrow at the floor
For firm Conviction of a Mouse
Not exorcised before—

Peruse how infinite I am
To no one that You—know—
And sigh for lack of Heaven—but not
The Heaven God bestow—

1279

The Way to know the Bobolink
From every other Bird
Precisely as the Joy of him—
Obliged to be inferred.

Of impudent Habiliment
Attired to defy,
Impertinence subordinate
At times to Majesty.

Of Sentiments seditious
Amenable to Law—
As Heresies of Transport
Or Puck’s Apostacy.

Extrinsic to Attention
Too intimate with Joy—
He compliments existence
Until allured away

By Seasons or his Children—
Adult and urgent grown—
Or unforeseen aggrandizement
Or, happily, Renown—

By Contrast certifying
The Bird of Birds is gone—
How nullified the Meadow—
Her Sorcerer withdrawn!

1091

The Well upon the Brook
Were foolish to depend—
Let Brooks—renew of Brooks—
But Wells—of failless Ground!

762

The Whole of it came not at once—
’Twas ****** by degrees—
A ******—and then for Life a chance—
The Bliss to cauterize—

The Cat reprieves the Mouse
She eases from her teeth
Just long enough for Hope to tease—
Then mashes it to death—

’Tis Life’s award—to die—
Contenteder if once—
Than dying half—then rallying
For consciouser Eclipse—

824

[first version]

The Wind begun to knead the Grass—
As Women do a Dough—
He flung a Hand full at the Plain—
A Hand full at the Sky—
The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees—
And started all abroad—
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands—
And throw away the Road—
The Wagons—quickened on the Street—
The Thunders gossiped low—
The Lightning showed a Yellow Head—
And then a livid Toe—
The Birds put up the Bars to Nests—
The Cattle flung to Barns—
Then 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—

[second version]

The Wind begun to rock the Grass
With threatening Tunes and low—
He threw a Menace at the Earth—
A Menace at the Sky.

The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees—
And started all abroad
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands
And threw 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—

316

The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard—today—
Further than that—
Nor stop to play with the Hay—
Nor joggle a Hat—
He’s a transitive fellow—very—
Rely on that—

If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir—
But the Fir is Where—Declare—
Were you ever there?

If He brings Odors of Clovers—
And that is His business—not Ours—
Then He has been with the Mowers—
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay—
His Way—of a June Day—

If He fling Sand, and Pebble—
Little Boys Hats—and Stubble—
With an occasional Steeple—
And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,”
Who’d be the fool to stay?
Would you—Say—
Would you be the fool to stay?

1694

The wind drew off
Like hungry dogs
Defeated of a bone—
Through fissures in
Volcanic cloud
The yellow lightning shone—
The trees held up
Their mangled limbs
Like animals in pain—
When Nature falls upon herself
Beware an Austrian.

436

The Wind—tapped like a tired Man—
And like a Host—”Come in”
I boldly answered—entered then
My Residence within

A Rapid—footless Guest—
To offer whom a Chair
Were as impossible as hand
A Sofa to the Air—

No Bone had He to bind Him—
His Speech was like the Push
Of numerous Humming Birds at once
From a superior Bush—

His Countenance—a Billow—
His Fingers, as He passed
Let go a music—as of tunes
Blown tremulous in Glass—

He visited—still flitting—
Then like a timid Man
Again, He tapped—’twas flurriedly—
And I became alone—

1134

The Wind took up the Northern Things
And piled them in the south—
Then gave the East unto the West
And opening his mouth

The four Divisions of the Earth
Did make as to devour
While everything to corners slunk
Behind the awful power—

The Wind—unto his Chambers went
And nature ventured out—
Her subjects scattered into place
Her systems ranged about

Again the smoke from Dwellings rose
The Day abroad was heard—
How intimate, a Tempest past
The Transport of the Bird—

403

The Winters are so short—
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—

Myself—for scarcely settled—
The Phoebes have begun—
And then—it’s time to strike my Tent—
And open House—again—

It’s mostly, interruptions—
My Summer—is despoiled—
Because there was a Winter—once—
And al the Cattle—starved—

And so there was a Deluge—
And swept the World away—
But Ararat’s a Legend—now—
And no one credits Noah—

1750

The words the happy say
Are paltry melody
But those the silent feel
Are beautiful—

1143

The Work of Her that went,
The Toil of Fellows done—
In Ovens green our Mother bakes,
By Fires of the Sun.

715

The World—feels Dusty
When We stop to Die—
We want the Dew—then—
Honors—taste dry—

Flags—vex a Dying face—
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend’s Hand—
Cools—like the Rain—

Mine be the Ministry
When they Thirst comes—
And Hybla Balms—
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch—

493

The World—stands—solemner—to me—
Since I was wed—to Him—
A modesty befits the soul
That bears another’s—name—
A doubt—if it be fair—indeed—
To wear that perfect—pearl—
The Man—upon the Woman—binds—
To clasp her soul—for all—
A prayer, that it more angel—prove—
A whiter Gift—within—
To that munificence, that chose—
So unadorned—a Queen—
A Gratitude—that such be true—
It had esteemed the Dream—
Too beautiful—for Shape to prove—
Or posture—to redeem!

1373

The worthlessness of Earthly things
The Ditty is that Nature Sings—
And then—enforces their delight
Till Synods are inordinate—

868

They ask but our Delight—
The Darlings of the Soil
And grant us all their Countenance
For a penurious smile.

628

They called me to the Window, for
” ’Twas Sunset”—Some one said—
I only saw a Sapphire Farm—
And just a Single Herd—

Of Opal Cattle—feeding far
Upon so vain a Hill—
As even while I looked—dissolved—
Nor Cattle were—nor Soil—

But in their stead—a Sea—displayed—
And Ships—of such a size
As Crew of Mountains—could afford—
And Decks—to seat the skies—

This—too—the Showman rubbed away—
And when I looked again—
Nor Farm—nor Opal Herd—was there—
Nor Mediterranean—