Poems: Third Series | Page 5

a bee.?Ah, curious friend,
Thou puzzlest me!
XVIII.
He touched me, so I live to know?That such a day, permitted so,?I groped upon his breast.?It was a boundless place to me,?And silenced, as the awful sea?Puts minor streams to rest.
And now, I'm different from before,?As if I breathed superior air,?Or brushed a royal gown;?My feet, too, that had wandered so,?My gypsy face transfigured now?To tenderer renown.
XIX.
DREAMS.
Let me not mar that perfect dream?By an auroral stain,?But so adjust my daily night?That it will come again.
XX.
NUMEN LUMEN.
I live with him, I see his face;?I go no more away?For visitor, or sundown;?Death's single privacy,
The only one forestalling mine,?And that by right that he?Presents a claim invisible,?No wedlock granted me.
I live with him, I hear his voice,?I stand alive to-day?To witness to the certainty?Of immortality
Taught me by Time, -- the lower way,?Conviction every day, --?That life like this is endless,?Be judgment what it may.
XXI.
LONGING.
I envy seas whereon he rides,?I envy spokes of wheels?Of chariots that him convey,?I envy speechless hills
That gaze upon his journey;?How easy all can see?What is forbidden utterly?As heaven, unto me!
I envy nests of sparrows?That dot his distant eaves,?The wealthy fly upon his pane,?The happy, happy leaves
That just abroad his window?Have summer's leave to be,?The earrings of Pizarro?Could not obtain for me.
I envy light that wakes him,?And bells that boldly ring?To tell him it is noon abroad, --?Myself his noon could bring,
Yet interdict my blossom?And abrogate my bee,?Lest noon in everlasting night?Drop Gabriel and me.
XXII.
WEDDED.
A solemn thing it was, I said,?A woman white to be,?And wear, if God should count me fit,?Her hallowed mystery.
A timid thing to drop a life?Into the purple well,?Too plummetless that it come back?Eternity until.
III. NATURE.
I.
NATURE'S CHANGES.
The springtime's pallid landscape?Will glow like bright bouquet,?Though drifted deep in parian?The village lies to-day.
The lilacs, bending many a year,?With purple load will hang;?The bees will not forget the tune?Their old forefathers sang.
The rose will redden in the bog,?The aster on the hill?Her everlasting fashion set,?And covenant gentians frill,
Till summer folds her miracle?As women do their gown,?Or priests adjust the symbols?When sacrament is done.
II.
THE TULIP.
She slept beneath a tree?Remembered but by me.?I touched her cradle mute;?She recognized the foot,?Put on her carmine suit, --?And see!
III.
A light exists in spring?Not present on the year?At any other period.?When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad?On solitary hills?That science cannot overtake,?But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn;?It shows the furthest tree?Upon the furthest slope we know;?It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step,?Or noons report away,?Without the formula of sound,?It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss?Affecting our content,?As trade had suddenly encroached?Upon a sacrament.
IV.
THE WAKING YEAR.
A lady red upon the hill?Her annual secret keeps;?A lady white within the field?In placid lily sleeps!
The tidy breezes with their brooms?Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!?Prithee, my pretty housewives!?Who may expected be?
The neighbors do not yet suspect!?The woods exchange a smile --?Orchard, and buttercup, and bird --?In such a little while!
And yet how still the landscape stands,?How nonchalant the wood,?As if the resurrection?Were nothing very odd!
V.
TO MARCH.
Dear March, come in!?How glad I am!?I looked for you before.?Put down your hat --?You must have walked --?How out of breath you are!?Dear March, how are you??And the rest??Did you leave Nature well??Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,?I have so much to tell!
I got your letter, and the birds';?The maples never knew?That you were coming, -- I declare,?How red their faces grew!?But, March, forgive me --?And all those hills?You left for me to hue;?There was no purple suitable,?You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April!?Lock the door!?I will not be pursued!?He stayed away a year, to call?When I am occupied.?But trifles look so trivial?As soon as you have come,?That blame is just as dear as praise?And praise as mere as blame.
VI.
MARCH.
We like March, his shoes are purple,?He is new and high;?Makes he mud for dog and peddler,?Makes he forest dry;?Knows the adder's tongue his coming,?And begets her spot.?Stands the sun so close and mighty?That our minds are hot.?News is he of all the others;?Bold it were to die?With the blue-birds buccaneering?On his British sky.
VII.
DAWN.
Not knowing when the dawn will come?I open every door;?Or has it feathers like a bird,?Or billows like a shore?
VIII.
A murmur in the trees to note,?Not loud enough for wind;?A star not far enough to seek,?Nor near enough to find;
A long, long yellow on the lawn,?A hubbub as of feet;?Not audible, as ours to us,?But dapperer, more sweet;
A hurrying home of little men?To houses unperceived, --?All this, and more, if I should tell,?Would never be believed.
Of robins in the trundle bed?How many I espy?Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,?Although I heard them try!
But then I promised ne'er to tell;?How could I break my word??So go your way and I'll go mine, --?No fear you'll miss the road.
IX.
Morning is the place for dew,?Corn is made at noon,?After