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Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete
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Second Series
PREFACEThe eagerness with which the first volume of Emily Dickinson's poems has been read shows very clearly that all our alleged modern artificiality does not prevent a prompt appreciation of the qualities of directness and simplicity in approaching the greatest themes,—life and love and death. That "irresistible needle-touch," as one of her best critics has called it, piercing at once the very core of a thought, has found a response as wide and sympathetic as it has been unexpected even to those who knew best her compelling power. This second volume, while open to the same criticism as to form with its predecessor, shows also the same shining beauties.
Although Emily Dickinson had been in the habit of sending occasional poems to friends and correspondents, the full extent of her writing was by no means imagined by them. Her friend "H.H." must at least have suspected it, for in a letter dated 5th September, 1884, she wrote:—
MY DEAR FRIEND,– What portfolios full of verses you must have! It is a cruel wrong to your "day and generation" that you will not give them light.
If such a thing should happen as that I should outlive you, I wish you would make me your literary legatee and executor. Surely after you are what is called "dead" you will be willing that the poor ghosts you have left behind should be cheered and pleased by your verses, will you not? You ought to be. I do not think we have a right to withhold from the world a word or a thought any more than a deed which might help a single soul. . . .
Truly yours,
HELEN JACKSONThe "portfolios" were found, shortly after Emily Dickinson's death, by her sister and only surviving housemate. Most of the poems had been carefully copied on sheets of note-paper, and tied in little fascicules, each of six or eight sheets. While many of them bear evidence of having been thrown off at white heat, still more had received thoughtful revision. There is the frequent addition of rather perplexing foot-notes, affording large choice of words and phrases. And in the copies which she sent to friends, sometimes one form, sometimes another, is found to have been used. Without important exception, her friends have generously placed at the disposal of the Editors any poems they had received from her; and these have given the obvious advantage of comparison among several renderings of the same verse.
To what further rigorous pruning her verses would have been subjected had she published them herself, we cannot know. They should be regarded in many cases as merely the first strong and suggestive sketches of an artist, intended to be embodied at some time in the finished picture.
Emily Dickinson appears to have written her first poems in the winter of 1862. In a letter to one of the present Editors the April following, she says, "I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter."
The handwriting was at first somewhat like the delicate, running Italian hand of our elder gentlewomen; but as she advanced in breadth of thought, it grew bolder and more abrupt, until in her latest years each letter stood distinct and separate from its fellows. In most of her poems, particularly the later ones, everything by way of punctuation was discarded, except numerous dashes; and all important words began with capitals. The effect of a page of her more recent manuscript is exceedingly quaint and strong. The fac-simile given in the present volume is from one of the earlier transition periods. Although there is nowhere a date, the handwriting makes it possible to arrange the poems with general chronologic accuracy.
As a rule, the verses were without titles; but "A Country Burial," "A Thunder-Storm," "The Humming-Bird," and a few others were named by their author, frequently at the end,—sometimes only in the accompanying note, if sent to a friend.
The variation of readings, with the fact that she often wrote in pencil and not always clearly, have at times thrown a good deal of responsibility upon her Editors. But all interference not absolutely inevitable has been avoided. The very roughness of her rendering is part of herself, and not lightly to be touched; for it seems in many cases that she intentionally avoided the smoother and more usual rhymes.
Like impressionist pictures, or Wagner's rugged music, the very absence of conventional form challenges attention. In Emily Dickinson's exacting hands, the especial, intrinsic fitness of a particular order of words might not be sacrificed to anything virtually extrinsic; and her verses all show a strange cadence of inner rhythmical music. Lines are always daringly constructed, and the "thought-rhyme" appears frequently,—appealing, indeed, to an unrecognized sense more elusive than hearing.
Emily Dickinson scrutinized everything with clear-eyed frankness. Every subject was proper ground for legitimate study, even the sombre facts of death and burial, and the unknown life beyond. She touches these themes sometimes lightly, sometimes almost humorously, more often with weird and peculiar power; but she is never by any chance frivolous or trivial. And while, as one critic has said, she may exhibit toward God "an Emersonian self-possession," it was because she looked upon all life with a candor as unprejudiced as it is rare.
She had tried society and the world, and found them lacking. She was not an invalid, and she lived in seclusion from no love-disappointment. Her life was the normal blossoming of a nature introspective to a high degree, whose best thought could not exist in pretence.Storm, wind, the wild March sky, sunsets and dawns; the birds and bees, butterflies and flowers of her garden, with a few trusted human friends, were sufficient companionship. The coming of the first robin was a jubilee beyond crowning of monarch or birthday of pope; the first red leaf hurrying through "the altered air," an epoch. Immortality was close about her; and while never morbid or melancholy, she lived in its presence.
MABEL LOOMIS TODD.
AMHERST, MASSACHUSETTS,
August, 1891.
My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes,Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise,To such, if they should whisper Of morning and the moor,They bear no other errand, And I, no other prayer.I. LIFEII'm nobody! Who are you?Are you nobody, too?Then there 's a pair of us – don't tell!They 'd banish us, you know.How dreary to be somebody!How public, like a frogTo tell your name the livelong dayTo an admiring bog!III bring an unaccustomed wineTo lips long parching, next to mine,And summon them to drink.Crackling with fever, they essay;I turn my brimming eyes away,And come next hour to look.The hands still hug the tardy glass;The lips I would have cooled, alas!Are so superfluous cold,I would as soon attempt to warmThe bosoms where the frost has lainAges beneath the mould.Some other thirsty there may beTo whom this would have pointed meHad it remained to speak.And so I always bear the cupIf, haply, mine may be the dropSome pilgrim thirst to slake, —If, haply, any say to me,"Unto the little, unto me,"When I at last awake.IIIThe nearest dream recedes, unrealized. The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover —Dips – evades – teases – deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boyStaring, bewildered, at the mocking sky. Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies notThat brews that rare variety.IVWe play at paste,Till qualified for pearl,Then drop the paste,And deem ourself a fool.The shapes, though, were similar,And our new handsLearned gem-tacticsPractising sands.VI found the phrase to every thoughtI ever had, but one;And that defies me, – as a handDid try to chalk the sunTo races nurtured in the dark; —How would your own begin?Can blaze be done in cochineal,Or noon in mazarin?VIHOPEHope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune without the words,And never stops at all,And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.I 've heard it in the chillest land,And on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.VIITHE WHITE HEATDare you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door.Red is the fire's common tint; But when the vivid oreHas sated flame's conditions, Its quivering substance playsWithout a color but the light Of unanointed blaze.Least village boasts its blacksmith, Whose anvil's even dinStands symbol for the finer forge That soundless tugs within,Refining these impatient ores With hammer and with blaze,Until the designated light Repudiate the forge.VIIITRIUMPHANTWho never lost, are unpreparedA coronet to find;Who never thirsted, flagonsAnd cooling tamarind.Who never climbed the weary league —Can such a foot exploreThe purple territoriesOn Pizarro's shore?How many legions overcome?The emperor will say.How many colors takenOn Revolution Day?How many bullets bearest?The royal scar hast thou?Angels, write "Promoted"On this soldier's brow!IXTHE TESTI can wade grief,Whole pools of it, —I 'm used to that.But the least push of joyBreaks up my feet,And I tip – drunken.Let no pebble smile,'T was the new liquor, —That was all!Power is only pain,Stranded, through discipline,Till weights will hang.Give balm to giants,And they 'll wilt, like men.Give Himmaleh, —They 'll carry him!XESCAPEI never hear the word "escape"Without a quicker blood,A sudden expectation,A flying attitude.I never hear of prisons broadBy soldiers battered down,But I tug childish at my bars, —Only to fail again!XICOMPENSATIONFor each ecstatic instantWe must an anguish payIn keen and quivering ratioTo the ecstasy.For each beloved hourSharp pittances of years,Bitter contested farthingsAnd coffers heaped with tears.XIITHE MARTYRSThrough the straight pass of sufferingThe martyrs even trod,Their feet upon temptation,Their faces upon God.A stately, shriven company;Convulsion playing round,Harmless as streaks of meteorUpon a planet's bound.Their faith the everlasting troth;Their expectation fair;The needle to the north degreeWades so, through polar air.XIIIA PRAYERI meant to have but modest needs,Such as content, and heaven;Within my income these could lie,And life and I keep even.But since the last included both,It would suffice my prayerBut just for one to stipulate,And grace would grant the pair.And so, upon this wise I prayed, —Great Spirit, give to meA heaven not so large as yours,But large enough for me.A smile suffused Jehovah's face;The cherubim withdrew;Grave saints stole out to look at me,And showed their dimples, too.I left the place with all my might, —My prayer away I threw;The quiet ages picked it up,And Judgment twinkled, too,That one so honest be extantAs take the tale for trueThat "Whatsoever you shall ask,Itself be given you."But I, grown shrewder, scan the skiesWith a suspicious air, —As children, swindled for the first,All swindlers be, infer.XIVThe thought beneath so slight a filmIs more distinctly seen, —As laces just reveal the surge,Or mists the Apennine.XVThe soul unto itselfIs an imperial friend, —Or the most agonizing spyAn enemy could send.Secure against its own,No treason it can fear;Itself its sovereign, of itselfThe soul should stand in awe.XVISurgeons must be very carefulWhen they take the knife!Underneath their fine incisionsStirs the culprit, – Life!XVIITHE RAILWAY TRAINI like to see it lap the miles,And lick the valleys up,And stop to feed itself at tanks;And then, prodigious, stepAround a pile of mountains,And, supercilious, peerIn shanties by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pareTo fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down hillAnd neigh like Boanerges;Then, punctual as a star,Stop – docile and omnipotent —At its own stable door.XVIIITHE SHOWThe show is not the show,But they that go.Menagerie to meMy neighbor be.Fair play —Both went to see.XIXDelight becomes pictorialWhen viewed through pain, —More fair, because impossibleThat any gain.The mountain at a given distanceIn amber lies;Approached, the amber flits a little, —And that 's the skies!XXA thought went up my mind to-dayThat I have had before,But did not finish, – some way back,I could not fix the year,Nor where it went, nor why it cameThe second time to me,Nor definitely what it was,Have I the art to say.But somewhere in my soul, I knowI 've met the thing before;It just reminded me – 't was all —And came my way no more.XXIIs Heaven a physician?They say that He can heal;But medicine posthumous Is unavailable.Is Heaven an exchequer? They speak of what we owe;But that negotiation I 'm not a party to.XXIITHE RETURNThough I get home how late, how late!So I get home, 't will compensate.Better will be the ecstasyThat they have done expecting me,When, night descending, dumb and dark,They hear my unexpected knock.Transporting must the moment be,Brewed from decades of agony!To think just how the fire will burn,Just how long-cheated eyes will turnTo wonder what myself will say,And what itself will say to me,Beguiles the centuries of way!XXIIIA poor torn heart, a tattered heart,That sat it down to rest,Nor noticed that the ebbing dayFlowed silver to the west,Nor noticed night did soft descendNor constellation burn,Intent upon the visionOf latitudes unknown.The angels, happening that way,This dusty heart espied;Tenderly took it up from toilAnd carried it to God.There, – sandals for the barefoot;There, – gathered from the gales,Do the blue havens by the handLead the wandering sails.XXIVTOO MUCHI should have been too glad, I see,Too lifted for the scant degree Of life's penurious round;My little circuit would have shamedThis new circumference, have blamed The homelier time behind.I should have been too saved, I see,Too rescued; fear too dim to me That I could spell the prayerI knew so perfect yesterday, —That scalding one, "Sabachthani," Recited fluent here.Earth would have been too much, I see,And heaven not enough for me; I should have had the joyWithout the fear to justify, —The palm without the Calvary; So, Saviour, crucify.Defeat whets victory, they say;The reefs in old Gethsemane Endear the shore beyond.'T is beggars banquets best define;'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, — Faith faints to understand.XXVSHIPWRECKIt tossed and tossed, —A little brig I knew, —O'ertook by blast,It spun and spun,And groped delirious, for morn.It slipped and slipped,As one that drunken stepped;Its white foot tripped,Then dropped from sight.Ah, brig, good-nightTo crew and you;The ocean's heart too smooth, too blue,To break for you.XXVIVictory comes late,And is held low to freezing lipsToo rapt with frostTo take it.How sweet it would have tasted,Just a drop!Was God so economical?His table 's spread too high for usUnless we dine on tip-toe.Crumbs fit such little mouths,Cherries suit robins;The eagle's golden breakfastStrangles them.God keeps his oath to sparrows,Who of little loveKnow how to starve!XXVIIENOUGHGod gave a loaf to every bird,But just a crumb to me;I dare not eat it, though I starve, —My poignant luxuryTo own it, touch it, prove the featThat made the pellet mine, —Too happy in my sparrow chanceFor ampler coveting.It might be famine all around,I could not miss an ear,Such plenty smiles upon my board,My garner shows so fair.I wonder how the rich may feel, —An Indiaman – an Earl?I deem that I with but a crumbAm sovereign of them all.XXVIIIExperiment to meIs every one I meet.If it contain a kernel?The figure of a nutPresents upon a tree,Equally plausibly;But meat within is requisite,To squirrels and to me.XXIXMY COUNTRY'S WARDROBEMy country need not change her gown,Her triple suit as sweetAs when 't was cut at Lexington,And first pronounced "a fit."Great Britain disapproves "the stars;"Disparagement discreet, —There 's something in their attitudeThat taunts her bayonet.XXXFaith is a fine inventionFor gentlemen who see;But microscopes are prudentIn an emergency!XXXIExcept the heaven had come so near,So seemed to choose my door,The distance would not haunt me so;I had not hoped before.But just to hear the grace departI never thought to see,Afflicts me with a double loss;'T is lost, and lost to me.XXXIIPortraits are to daily facesAs an evening westTo a fine, pedantic sunshineIn a satin vest.XXXIIITHE DUELI took my power in my hand.And went against the world;'T was not so much as David had,But I was twice as bold.I aimed my pebble, but myselfWas all the one that fell.Was it Goliath was too large,Or only I too small?XXXIVA shady friend for torrid daysIs easier to findThan one of higher temperatureFor frigid hour of mind.The vane a little to the eastScares muslin souls away;If broadcloth breasts are firmerThan those of organdy,Who is to blame? The weaver?Ah! the bewildering thread!The tapestries of paradiseSo notelessly are made!XXXVTHE GOALEach life converges to some centreExpressed or still;Exists in every human natureA goal,Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,Too fairFor credibility's temerityTo dare.Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,To reachWere hopeless as the rainbow's raimentTo touch,Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;How highUnto the saints' slow diligenceThe sky!Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,But then,Eternity enables the endeavoringAgain.XXXVISIGHTBefore I got my eye put out,I liked as well to seeAs other creatures that have eyes,And know no other way.But were it told to me, to-day,That I might have the skyFor mine, I tell you that my heartWould split, for size of me.The meadows mine, the mountains mine, —All forests, stintless stars,As much of noon as I could takeBetween my finite eyes.The motions of the dipping birds,The lightning's jointed road,For mine to look at when I liked, —The news would strike me dead!So safer, guess, with just my soulUpon the window-paneWhere other creatures put their eyes,Incautious of the sun.XXXVIITalk with prudence to a beggarOf 'Potosi' and the mines!Reverently to the hungryOf your viands and your wines!Cautious, hint to any captiveYou have passed enfranchised feet!Anecdotes of air in dungeonsHave sometimes proved deadly sweet!XXXVIIITHE PREACHERHe preached upon "breadth" till it argued him narrow, —The broad are too broad to define;And of "truth" until it proclaimed him a liar, —The truth never flaunted a sign.Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presenceAs gold the pyrites would shun.What confusion would cover the innocent JesusTo meet so enabled a man!XXXIXGood night! which put the candle out?A jealous zephyr, not a doubt. Ah! friend, you little knewHow long at that celestial wickThe angels labored diligent; Extinguished, now, for you!It might have been the lighthouse sparkSome sailor, rowing in the dark, Had importuned to see!It might have been the waning lampThat lit the drummer from the camp To purer reveille!XLWhen I hoped I feared,Since I hoped I dared;Everywhere aloneAs a church remain;Spectre cannot harm,Serpent cannot charm;He deposes doom,Who hath suffered him.XLIDEEDA deed knocks first at thought,And then it knocks at will.That is the manufacturing spot,And will at home and well.It then goes out an act,Or is entombed so stillThat only to the ear of GodIts doom is audible.XLIITIME'S LESSONMine enemy is growing old, —I have at last revenge.The palate of the hate departs;If any would avenge, —Let him be quick, the viand flits,It is a faded meat.Anger as soon as fed is dead;'T is starving makes it fat.XLIIIREMORSERemorse is memory awake,Her companies astir, —A presence of departed actsAt window and at door.It's past set down before the soul,And lighted with a match,Perusal to facilitateOf its condensed despatch.Remorse is cureless, – the diseaseNot even God can heal;For 't is his institution, —The complement of hell.XLIVTHE SHELTERThe body grows outside, —The more convenient way, —That if the spirit like to hide,Its temple stands alwayAjar, secure, inviting;It never did betrayThe soul that asked its shelterIn timid honesty.XLVUndue significance a starving man attachesTo foodFar off; he sighs, and therefore hopeless,And therefore good.Partaken, it relieves indeed, but proves usThat spices flyIn the receipt. It was the distanceWas savory.XLVIHeart not so heavy as mine,Wending late home,As it passed my windowWhistled itself a tune, —A careless snatch, a ballad,A ditty of the street;Yet to my irritated earAn anodyne so sweet,It was as if a bobolink,Sauntering this way,Carolled and mused and carolled,Then bubbled slow away.It was as if a chirping brookUpon a toilsome waySet bleeding feet to minuetsWithout the knowing why.To-morrow, night will come again,Weary, perhaps, and sore.Ah, bugle, by my window,I pray you stroll once more!XLVIII many times thought peace had come,When peace was far away;As wrecked men deem they sight the landAt centre of the sea,And struggle slacker, but to prove,As hopelessly as I,How many the fictitious shoresBefore the harbor lie.XLVIIIUnto my books so good to turnFar ends of tired days;It half endears the abstinence,And pain is missed in praise.As flavors cheer retarded guestsWith banquetings to be,So spices stimulate the timeTill my small library.It may be wilderness without,Far feet of failing men,But holiday excludes the night,And it is bells within.I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;Their countenances blandEnamour in prospective,And satisfy, obtained.XLIXThis merit hath the worst, —It cannot be again.When Fate hath taunted lastAnd thrown her furthest stone,The maimed may pause and breathe,And glance securely round.The deer invites no longerThan it eludes the hound.LHUNGERI had been hungry all the years;My noon had come, to dine;I, trembling, drew the table near,And touched the curious wine.'T was this on tables I had seen,When turning, hungry, lone,I looked in windows, for the wealthI could not hope to own.I did not know the ample bread,'T was so unlike the crumbThe birds and I had often sharedIn Nature's dining-room.The plenty hurt me, 't was so new, —Myself felt ill and odd,As berry of a mountain bushTransplanted to the road.Nor was I hungry; so I foundThat hunger was a wayOf persons outside windows,The entering takes away.LII gained it so, By climbing slow,By catching at the twigs that growBetween the bliss and me. It hung so high, As well the sky Attempt by strategy.I said I gained it, — This was all.Look, how I clutch it, Lest it fall,And I a pauper go;Unfitted by an instant's graceFor the contented beggar's faceI wore an hour ago.LIITo learn the transport by the pain,As blind men learn the sun;To die of thirst, suspectingThat brooks in meadows run;To stay the homesick, homesick feetUpon a foreign shoreHaunted by native lands, the while,And blue, beloved air —This is the sovereign anguish,This, the signal woe!These are the patient laureatesWhose voices, trained below,Ascend in ceaseless carol,Inaudible, indeed,To us, the duller scholarsOf the mysterious bard!LIIIRETURNINGI years had been from home,And now, before the door,I dared not open, lest a faceI never saw beforeStare vacant into mineAnd ask my business there.My business, – just a life I left,Was such still dwelling there?I fumbled at my nerve,I scanned the windows near;The silence like an ocean rolled,And broke against my ear.I laughed a wooden laughThat I could fear a door,Who danger and the dead had faced,But never quaked before.I fitted to the latchMy hand, with trembling care,Lest back the awful door should spring,And leave me standing there.I moved my fingers offAs cautiously as glass,And held my ears, and like a thiefFled gasping from the house.LIVPRAYERPrayer is the little implementThrough which men reachWhere presence is denied them.They fling their speechBy means of it in God's ear;If then He hear,This sums the apparatusComprised in prayer.LVI know that he existsSomewhere, in silence.He has hid his rare lifeFrom our gross eyes.'T is an instant's play,'T is a fond ambush,Just to make blissEarn her own surprise!But should the playProve piercing earnest,Should the glee glazeIn death's stiff stare,Would not the funLook too expensive?Would not the jestHave crawled too far?LVIMELODIES UNHEARDMusicians wrestle everywhere:All day, among the crowded air, I hear the silver strife;And – waking long before the dawn —Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that "new life!"It is not bird, it has no nest;Nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed, Nor tambourine, nor man;It is not hymn from pulpit read, —The morning stars the treble led On time's first afternoon!Some say it is the spheres at play!Some say that bright majority Of vanished dames and men!Some think it service in the placeWhere we, with late, celestial face, Please God, shall ascertain!LVIICALLED BACKJust lost when I was saved!Just felt the world go by!Just girt me for the onset with eternity,When breath blew back,And on the other sideI heard recede the disappointed tide!Therefore, as one returned, I feel,Odd secrets of the line to tell!Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,Some pale reporter from the awful doorsBefore the seal!Next time, to stay!Next time, the things to seeBy ear unheard,Unscrutinized by eye.Next time, to tarry,While the ages steal, —Slow tramp the centuries,And the cycles wheel.II. LOVEICHOICEOf all the souls that stand createI have elected one.When sense from spirit files away,And subterfuge is done;When that which is and that which wasApart, intrinsic, stand,And this brief tragedy of fleshIs shifted like a sand;When figures show their royal frontAnd mists are carved away, —Behold the atom I preferredTo all the lists of clay!III have no life but this,To lead it here;Nor any death, but lestDispelled from there;Nor tie to earths to come,Nor action new,Except through this extent,The realm of you.IIIYour riches taught me poverty.Myself a millionnaireIn little wealths, – as girls could boast, —Till broad as Buenos Ayre,You drifted your dominionsA different Peru;And I esteemed all poverty,For life's estate with you.Of mines I little know, myself,But just the names of gems, —The colors of the commonest;And scarce of diademsSo much that, did I meet the queen,Her glory I should know:But this must be a different wealth,To miss it beggars so.I 'm sure 't is India all dayTo those who look on youWithout a stint, without a blame, —Might I but be the Jew!I 'm sure it is Golconda,Beyond my power to deem, —To have a smile for mine each day,How better than a gem!At least, it solaces to knowThat there exists a gold,Although I prove it just in timeIts distance to behold!It 's far, far treasure to surmise,And estimate the pearlThat slipped my simple fingers throughWhile just a girl at school!IVTHE CONTRACTI gave myself to him,And took himself for pay.The solemn contract of a lifeWas ratified this way.The wealth might disappoint,Myself a poorer proveThan this great purchaser suspect,The daily own of LoveDepreciate the vision;But, till the merchant buy,Still fable, in the isles of spice,The subtle cargoes lie.At least, 't is mutual risk, —Some found it mutual gain;Sweet debt of Life, – each night to owe,Insolvent, every noon.VTHE LETTER"Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him —Tell him the page I didn't write;Tell him I only said the syntax,And left the verb and the pronoun out.Tell him just how the fingers hurried,Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow;And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,So you could see what moved them so."Tell him it wasn't a practised writer,You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;You could hear the bodice tug, behind you,As if it held but the might of a child;You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.Tell him – No, you may quibble there,For it would split his heart to know it,And then you and I were silenter."Tell him night finished before we finished,And the old clock kept neighing 'day!'And you got sleepy and begged to be ended —What could it hinder so, to say?Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious,But if he ask where you are hidUntil to-morrow, – happy letter!Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"VIThe way I read a letter 's this:'T is first I lock the door,And push it with my fingers next,For transport it be sure.And then I go the furthest offTo counteract a knock;Then draw my little letter forthAnd softly pick its lock.Then, glancing narrow at the wall,And narrow at the floor,For firm conviction of a mouseNot exorcised before,Peruse how infinite I amTo – no one that you know!And sigh for lack of heaven, – but notThe heaven the creeds bestow.VIIWild nights! Wild nights!Were I with thee,Wild nights should beOur luxury!Futile the windsTo a heart in port, —Done with the compass,Done with the chart.Rowing in Eden!Ah! the sea!Might I but moorTo-night in thee!VIIIAT HOMEThe night was wide, and furnished scantWith but a single star,That often as a cloud it metBlew out itself for fear.The wind pursued the little bush,And drove away the leavesNovember left; then clambered upAnd fretted in the eaves.No squirrel went abroad;A dog's belated feetLike intermittent plush were heardAdown the empty street.To feel if blinds be fast,And closer to the fireHer little rocking-chair to draw,And shiver for the poor,The housewife's gentle task."How pleasanter," said sheUnto the sofa opposite,"The sleet than May – no thee!"IXPOSSESSIONDid the harebell loose her girdleTo the lover bee,Would the bee the harebell hallowMuch as formerly?Did the paradise, persuaded,Yield her moat of pearl,Would the Eden be an Eden,Or the earl an earl?XA charm invests a faceImperfectly beheld, —The lady dare not lift her veilFor fear it be dispelled.But peers beyond her mesh,And wishes, and denies, —Lest interview annul a wantThat image satisfies.XITHE LOVERSThe rose did caper on her cheek,Her bodice rose and fell,Her pretty speech, like drunken men,Did stagger pitiful.Her fingers fumbled at her work, —Her needle would not go;What ailed so smart a little maidIt puzzled me to know,Till opposite I spied a cheekThat bore another rose;Just opposite, another speechThat like the drunkard goes;A vest that, like the bodice, dancedTo the immortal tune, —Till those two troubled little clocksTicked softly into one.XIIIn lands I never saw, they say,Immortal Alps look down,Whose bonnets touch the firmament,Whose sandals touch the town, —Meek at whose everlasting feetA myriad daisies play.Which, sir, are you, and which am I,Upon an August day?XIIIThe moon is distant from the sea,And yet with amber handsShe leads him, docile as a boy,Along appointed sands.He never misses a degree;Obedient to her eye,He comes just so far toward the town,Just so far goes away.Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,And mine the distant sea, —Obedient to the least commandThine eyes impose on me.XIVHe put the belt around my life, —I heard the buckle snap,And turned away, imperial,My lifetime folding upDeliberate, as a duke would doA kingdom's title-deed, —Henceforth a dedicated sort,A member of the cloud.Yet not too far to come at call,And do the little toilsThat make the circuit of the rest,And deal occasional smilesTo lives that stoop to notice mineAnd kindly ask it in, —Whose invitation, knew you notFor whom I must decline?XVTHE LOST JEWELI held a jewel in my fingersAnd went to sleep.The day was warm, and winds were prosy;I said: "'T will keep."I woke and chid my honest fingers, —The gem was gone;And now an amethyst remembranceIs all I own.XVIWhat if I say I shall not wait?What if I burst the fleshly gateAnd pass, escaped, to thee?What if I file this mortal off,See where it hurt me, – that 's enough, —And wade in liberty?They cannot take us any more, —Dungeons may call, and guns implore;Unmeaning now, to me,As laughter was an hour ago,Or laces, or a travelling show,Or who died yesterday!III. NATUREIMOTHER NATURENature, the gentlest mother,Impatient of no child,The feeblest or the waywardest, —Her admonition mildIn 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 downHer 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 skyWith infinite affectionAnd infiniter care,Her golden finger on her lip,Wills silence everywhere.IIOUT OF THE MORNINGWill 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!IIIAt 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.IVDAY'S PARLORThe 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!VTHE SUN'S WOOINGThe 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 kingTrailed 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.VITHE ROBINThe 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.VIITHE BUTTERFLY'S DAYFrom 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.VIIITHE BLUEBIRDBefore 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!IXAPRILAn 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.XTHE SLEEPING FLOWERS"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."XIMY ROSEPigmy 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!XIITHE ORIOLE'S SECRETTo 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!"XIIITHE ORIOLEOne 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.XIVIN SHADOWI 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.XVTHE HUMMING-BIRDA 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.XVISECRETSThe 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!XVIIWho 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?XVIIITWO VOYAGERSTwo 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.XIXBY THE SEAI 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.XXOLD-FASHIONEDArcturus 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!XXIA TEMPESTAn 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!XXIITHE SEAAn everywhere of silver,With ropes of sandTo keep it from effacingThe track called land.XXIIIIN THE GARDENA 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 headLike one in danger; cautious,I offered him a crumb,And he unrolled his feathersAnd rowed him softer homeThan oars divide the ocean,Too silver for a seam,Or butterflies, off banks of noon,Leap, plashless, as they swim.XXIVTHE SNAKEA 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.XXVTHE MUSHROOMThe mushroom is the elf of plants,At evening it is not;At morning in a truffled hutIt stops upon a spotAs 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.XXVITHE STORMThere 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!XXVIITHE SPIDERA 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.XXVIIII 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 refrainsInto the lap of adamant,And spices, and the dew,That stiffens quietly to quartz,Upon her amber shoe.XXIXThe 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.XXXTHE WlND'S VISITThe wind tapped like a tired man,And like a host, "Come in,"I boldly answered; entered thenMy residence withinA 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.XXXINature rarer uses yellow Than 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.XXXIIGOSSIPThe leaves, like women, interchange Sagacious confidence;Somewhat of nods, and somewhat of Portentous inference,The parties in both cases Enjoining secrecy, —Inviolable compact To notoriety.XXXIIISIMPLICITYHow happy is the little stoneThat rambles in the road alone,And doesn'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.XXXIVSTORMIt 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.XXXVTHE RATThe 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.XXXVIFrequently 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!XXXVIIA THUNDER-STORMThe 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 handsThat held the dams had parted hold,The waters wrecked the sky,But overlooked my father's house,Just quartering a tree.XXXVIIIWITH FLOWERSSouth winds jostle them,Bumblebees come,Hover, hesitate,Drink, and are gone.Butterflies pauseOn their passage Cashmere;I, softly plucking,Present them here!XXXIXSUNSETWhere ships of purple gently tossOn seas of daffodil,Fantastic sailors mingle,And then – the wharf is still.XLShe 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.XLILike 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.XLIIPROBLEMSBring 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 sleeps Who spun the breadths of blue!Write me how many notes there beIn the new robin's ecstasy Among 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 spheres By 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 close My spirit cannot see?Who 'll let me out some gala day,With implements to fly away, Passing pomposity?XLIIITHE JUGGLER OF DAYBlazing 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!XLIVMY CRICKETFarther 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.XLVAs 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.XLVIIt 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.XLVIISUMMER'S OBSEQUIESThe 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!XLVIIIFRINGED GENTIANGod 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?"XLIXNOVEMBERBesides 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!LTHE SNOWIt 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 veilOn 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.LITHE BLUE JAYNo brigadier throughout the yearSo civic as the jay.A neighbor and a warrior too,With shrill felicityPursuing 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.IV. TIME AND ETERNITYILet 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.IIGoing 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.IIIAt 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?IVEPITAPHStep 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.VMorns 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!VIA 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.VIII 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.VIIII 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!IXTHE BATTLE-FIELDThey dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose,When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes.They perished in the seamless grass, — No eye could find the place;But God on his repealless list Can summon every face.XThe 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!XISome, 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.XIIAs 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!XIIIMEMORIALSDeath sets a thing significantThe eye had hurried by,Except a perished creatureEntreat us tenderlyTo ponder little workmanshipsIn crayon or in wool,With "This was last her fingers did,"Industrious untilThe 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.XIVI 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.XVTheir 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 eyesBetter than larger values,However true their show;This timid life of evidenceKeeps pleading, "I don't know."XVIThere 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.XVIITRIUMPHTriumph 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!XVIIIPompless no life can pass away; The lowliest careerTo the same pageant wends its way As that exalted here.How cordial is the mystery! The hospitable pallA "this way" beckons spaciously, — A miracle for all!XIXI 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!XXFOLLOWINGI 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.XXIIf 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!XXIITHE JOURNEYOur 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.XXIIIA COUNTRY BURIALAmple 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.XXIVGOINGOn 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 lieFor 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!XXVEssential 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.XXVII 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.XXVIIIf 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!XXVIIIAT LENGTHHer final summer was it,And yet we guessed it not;If tenderer industriousnessPervaded her, we thoughtA 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!XXIXGHOSTSOne 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.XXXVANISHEDShe 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.XXXIPRECEDENCEWait 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!XXXIIGONEWent 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!XXXIIIREQUIEMTaken 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.XXXIVWhat 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?XXXVIt 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.XXXVITILL THE ENDI should not dare to leave my friend,Because – because if he should dieWhile I was gone, and I – too late —Should reach the heart that wanted me;If I should disappoint the eyesThat hunted, hunted so, to see,And could not bear to shut untilThey "noticed" me – they noticed me;If I should stab the patient faithSo sure I 'd come – so sure I 'd come,It listening, listening, went to sleepTelling my tardy name, —My heart would wish it broke before,Since breaking then, since breaking then,Were useless as next morning's sun,Where midnight frosts had lain!XXXVIIVOIDGreat streets of silence led awayTo neighborhoods of pause;Here was no notice, no dissent,No universe, no laws.By clocks 't was morning, and for nightThe bells at distance called;But epoch had no basis here,For period exhaled.XXXVIIIA throe upon the featuresA hurry in the breath,An ecstasy of partingDenominated "Death," —An anguish at the mention,Which, when to patience grown,I 've known permission givenTo rejoin its own.XXXIXSAVED!Of tribulation these are theyDenoted by the white;The spangled gowns, a lesser rankOf victors designate.All these did conquer; but the onesWho overcame most timesWear nothing commoner than snow,No ornament but palms.Surrender is a sort unknownOn this superior soil;Defeat, an outgrown anguish,Remembered as the mileOur panting ankle barely gainedWhen night devoured the road;But we stood whispering in the house,And all we said was "Saved"!XLI think just how my shape will riseWhen I shall be forgiven,Till hair and eyes and timid headAre out of sight, in heaven.I think just how my lips will weighWith shapeless, quivering prayerThat you, so late, consider me,The sparrow of your care.I mind me that of anguish sent,Some drifts were moved awayBefore my simple bosom broke, —And why not this, if they?And so, until delirious borneI con that thing, – "forgiven," —Till with long fright and longer trustI drop my heart, unshriven!XLITHE FORGOTTEN GRAVEAfter a hundred yearsNobody knows the place, —Agony, that enacted there,Motionless as peace.Weeds triumphant ranged,Strangers strolled and spelledAt the lone orthographyOf the elder dead.Winds of summer fieldsRecollect the way, —Instinct picking up the keyDropped by memory.XLIILay this laurel on the oneToo intrinsic for renown.Laurel! veil your deathless tree, —Him you chasten, that is he!
