She bore it till the simple veins Traced azure on her hand - Till pleading, round her quiet eyes The purple crayons stand. Till Daffodils had come and gone I cannot tell the sum, And then she ceased to bear it - And with the Saints sat down.
No more her patient figure At twilight soft to meet - No more her timid bonnet Upon the village street -
But crowns instead, and courtiers - And in the midst so fair, Whose but her shy - immortal face Of whom we're whispering here?
For every Bird a nest - Wherefore in timid quest Some little Wren goes seeking round - Wherefore when boughs are free, Households in every tree, Pilgrim be found?
Perhaps a home too high - Ah aristocracy! The little Wren desires -
Perhaps of twig so fine - Of twine e'en superfine, Her pride aspires -
The Lark is not ashamed To build upon the ground Her modest house -
Yet who of all the throng Dancing around the sun Does so rejoice?
Some, too fragile for winter winds The thoughtful grave encloses - Tenderly tucking them in from frost Before their feet are cold - Never the treasures in her nest The cautious grave exposes, Building where schoolboy dare not look, And sportsman is not bold.
This covert have all the children Early aged, and often cold, Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father - Lambs for whom time had not a fold.
An altered look about the hills - A Tyrian light the village fills - A wider sunrise in the morn A deeper twilight on the lawn - A print of a vermillion 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' Mystery Receives it's annual reply
Soul, Wilt thou toss again? By just such a hazard Hundreds have lost indeed - But tens have won an all - Angel's breathless ballot Lingers to record thee - Imps in eager caucus Raffle for my soul
Pigmy seraphs - gone astray - Velvet people from Vevay - Belles from some lost summer day - Bees exclusive Coterie - Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald - Venice could not show a check Of a tint so lustrous meek - Never such an ambuscade As of briar and leaf displayed For my little damask maid -
I had rather wear her grace Than an Earl's distinguished face - I had rather dwell like her Than be "Duke of Exeter" - Royalty enough for me To subdue the Bumblebee
Flowers - Well - if anybody Can the extasy define - Half a transport - half a trouble - With which flowers humble men: Anybody find the fountain From which floods so contra flow - I will give him all the Daisies Which upon the hillside blow. Too much pathos in their faces For a simple breast like mine - Butterflies from St Domingo Cruising round the purple line - Have a system of aesthetics - Far superior to mine.
Sic transit gloria mundi," "How doth the busy bee," "Dum vivimus vivamus," I stay mine enemy! Oh "veni, vidi, vici!" Oh caput cap-a-pie! And oh "memento mori" When I am far from thee!
Hurrah for Peter Parley! Hurrah for Daniel Boon! Three cheers, sir, for the gentleman Who first observed the moon!
Peter, put up the sunshine; Pattie, arrange the stars; Tell Luna, tea is waiting, And call your brother Mars!
Put down the apple, Adam, And come away with me, So shalt thou have a pippin From off my father's tree!
I climb the "Hill of Science," I "view the landscape o'er;" Such transcendental prospect, I ne'er beheld before!
Unto the Legislature My country bids me go; I'll take my india rubbers, In case the wind should blow!
During my education, It was announced to me That gravitation, stumbling, Fell from an apple tree!
The earth upon an axis Was once supposed to turn, By way of a gymnastic In honor of the sun!
It was the brave Columbus, A sailing o'er the tide, Who notified the nations Of where I would reside!
Mortality is fatal - Gentility is fine, Rascality, heroic, Insolvency, sublime!
Our Fathers being weary, Laid down on Bunker Hill; And tho' full many a morning, Yet they are sleeping still, -
The trumpet, sir, shall wake them, In dreams I see them rise, Each with a solemn musket A marching to the skies!
A coward will remain, Sir, Until the fight is done; But an immortal hero Will take his hat, and run!
Good bye, Sir, I am going; My country calleth me; Allow me, Sir, at parting, To wipe my weeping e'e.
In token of our friendship Accept this "Bonnie Doon," And when the hand that plucked it Hath passed beyond the moon,
The memory of my ashes Will consolation be; Then, farewell, Tuscarora, And farewell, Sir, to thee!
Frequently the woods are pink - Frequently are brown. Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town. Oft a head is crested I was wont to see - And as oft a cranny Where it used to be - And the Earth - they tell me - On it's axis turned! Wonderful Rotation! By but twelve performed!