How many Flowers fail in Wood - Or perish from the Hill - Without the privilege to know That they are Beautiful - How many cast a nameless Pod Upon the nearest Breeze - Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight - It bear to Other Eyes.
The Winters are so short - I'm hardly justified In sending all the Birds away - And moving into Pod - Myself - for scarcely settled - The Phebes 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 all 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.
What Soft - Cherubic Creatures - These Gentlewomen are - One would as soon assault a Plush - Or violate a Star - Such Dimity Convictions - A Horror so refined Of freckled Human Nature - Of Deity - ashamed -
It's such a common - Glory - A Fisherman's - Degree - Redemption - Brittle Lady - Be so - ashamed of Thee.
There is a flower that Bees prefer - And Butterflies - desire - To gain the Purple Democrat The Humming Bird - aspire - And Whatsoever Insect pass - A Honey bear away Proportioned to his several dearth And her - capacity -
Her face be rounder than the Moon And ruddier than the Gown Or Orchis in the Pasture - Or Rhododendron - worn -
She doth not wait for June - Before the World be Green - Her sturdy little Countenance Against the Wind - be seen -
Contending with the Grass - Near Kinsman to Herself - For Privilege of Sod and Sun - Sweet Litigants for Life -
And when the Hills be full - And newer fashions blow - Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy -
Her Public - be the Noon - Her Providence - the Sun - Her Progress - by the Bee - proclaimed - In sovereign - Swerveless Tune -
The Bravest - of the Host - Surrendering - the last - Nor even of Defeat - aware - When cancelled by the Frost.
Rehearsal to Ourselves Of a Withdrawn Delight - Affords a Bliss like Murder - Omnipotent - Acute - We will not drop the Dirk - Because We love the Wound The Dirk Commemorate - Itself Remind Us that we died.
I saw no Way - The Heavens were stitched - I felt the Columns close - The Earth reversed her Hemispheres - I touched the Universe - And back it slid - and I alone - A Speck upon a Ball - Went out upon Circumference - Beyond the Dip of Bell.
To lose one's faith - surpass The loss of an Estate - Because Estates can be Replenished - faith cannot - Inherited with Life - Belief - but once - can be - Annihilate a single clause - And Being's - Beggary.
Over and over, like a Tune - The Recollection plays - Drums off the Phantom Battlements Cornets of Paradise - Snatches, from Baptized Generations - Cadences too grand But for the Justified Processions At the Lord's Right hand.
Although I put away his life - An Ornament too grand For Forehead low as mine, to wear, This might have been the Hand That sowed the flower, he preferred - Or smoothed a homely pain, Or pushed the pebble from his path - Or played his chosen tune -
On Lute the least - the latest - But just his Ear could know That whatsoe'er delighted it, I never would let go -
The foot to bear his errand - A little Boot I know - Would leap abroad like Antelope - With just the grant to do -
His weariest Commandment - A sweeter to obey, Than "Hide and Seek" - Or skip to Flutes - Or all Day, chase the Bee -
Your Servant, Sir, will weary - The Surgeon, will not come - The World, will have it's own - to do - The Dust, will vex your Fame -
The Cold will force your tightest door Some February Day, But say my apron bring the sticks To make your Cottage gay -
That I may take that promise To Paradise, with me - To teach the Angels, avarice, You, Sir, taught first - to me.
Went to thank Her - But She Slept - Her Bed - a funneled Stone - With Nosegays at the Head and Foot - That Travellers - had thrown - Who went to thank Her - But She Slept - 'Twas Short - to cross the Sea - To look upon Her like - alive - But turning back - 'twas slow.