POEMS

by EMILY DICKINSON

Edited by two of her friends

MABEL LOOMIS TODD and T. W. HIGGINSON

PREFACE. 

The verses of Emily Dickinson belong emphatically to what Emersonlong since called "the Poetry of the Portfolio, "--something producedabsolutely without the thought of publication, and solely by way ofexpression of the writer's own mind. Such verse must inevitablyforfeit whatever advantage lies in the discipline of public criticismand the enforced conformity to accepted ways. On the other hand, itmay often gain something through the habit of freedom and theunconventional utterance of daring thoughts. In the case of thepresent author, there was absolutely no choice in the matter; shemust write thus, or not at all. A recluse by temperament and habit, literally spending years without setting her foot beyond thedoorstep, and many more years during which her walks were strictlylimited to her father's grounds, she habitually concealed her mind, like her person, from all but a very few friends; and it was withgreat difficulty that she was persuaded to print, during herlifetime, three or four poems. Yet she wrote verses in greatabundance; and though brought curiously indifferent to allconventional rules, had yet a rigorous literary standard of her own, and often altered a word many times to suit an ear which had its owntenacious fastidiousness. 

Miss Dickinson was born in Amherst, Mass. , Dec. 10, 1830, and diedthere May 15, 1886. Her father, Hon. Edward Dickinson, was theleading lawyer of Amherst, and was treasurer of the well-knowncollege there situated. It was his custom once a year to hold a largereception at his house, attended by all the families connected withthe institution and by the leading people of the town. On theseoccasions his daughter Emily emerged from her wonted retirement anddid her part as gracious hostess; nor would any one have known fromher manner, I have been told, that this was not a daily occurrence. The annual occasion once past, she withdrew again into her seclusion, and except for a very few friends was as invisible to the world as ifshe had dwelt in a nunnery. For myself, although I had correspondedwith her for many years, I saw her but twice face to face, andbrought away the impression of something as unique and remote asUndine or Mignon or Thekla. 

This selection from her poems is published to meet the desire of herpersonal friends, and especially of her surviving sister. It isbelieved that the thoughtful reader will find in these pages aquality more suggestive of the poetry of William Blake than ofanything to be elsewhere found, --flashes of wholly original andprofound insight into nature and life; words and phrases exhibitingan extraordinary vividness of descriptive and imaginative power, yetoften set in a seemingly whimsical or even rugged frame. They arehere published as they were written, with very few and superficialchanges; although it is fair to say that the titles have beenassigned, almost invariably, by the editors. In many cases theseverses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, withrain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness anda fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed. In other cases, as in thefew poems of shipwreck or of mental conflict, we can only wonder atthe gift of vivid imagination by which this recluse woman candelineate, by a few touches, the very crises of physical or mentalstruggle. And sometimes again we catch glimpses of a lyric strain, sustained perhaps but for a line or two at a time, and making thereader regret its sudden cessation. But the main quality of thesepoems is that of extraordinary grasp and insight, uttered with anuneven vigor sometimes exasperating, seemingly wayward, but reallyunsought and inevitable. After all, when a thought takes one'sbreath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence. As Ruskinwrote in his earlier and better days, "No weight nor mass nor beautyof execution can outweigh one grain or fragment of thought. "

 ---Thomas Wentworth Higginson

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

As is well documented, Emily Dickinson's poems were edited in theseearly editions by her friends, better to fit the conventions of thetimes. In particular, her dashes, often small enough to appearas dots, became commas and semi-colons. 

In the second series of poems published, a facsimile of herhandwritten poem which her editors titled "Renunciation" is given, and I here transcribe that manuscript as faithfully as I can, showing _underlined_ words thus. 

There came a day - at Summer's full -Entirely for me -I thought that such were for the Saints -Where Resurrections - be -

The sun - as common - went abroad -The flowers - accustomed - blew, As if no soul - that solstice passed -Which maketh all things - new -

The time was scarce profaned - by speech -The falling of a wordWas needless - as at Sacrament -The _Wardrobe_ - of our Lord!

Each was to each - the sealed church -Permitted to commune - _this_ time -Lest we too awkward showAt Supper of "the Lamb. "

The hours slid fast - as hours will -Clutched tight - by greedy hands -So - faces on two Decks look back -Bound to _opposing_ lands. 

And so, when all the time had leaked, Without external sound, Each bound the other's Crucifix -We gave no other bond -

Sufficient troth - that we shall _rise_, Deposed - at length the Grave -To that new marriage -_Justified_ - through Calvaries - of Love!

From the handwriting, it is not always clear which are dashes, which are commas and which are periods, nor it is entirelyclear which initial letters are capitalized. 

However, this transcription may be compared with the editedversion in the main text to get a flavor of the changes madein these early editions. 

 ---JT

 This is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me, -- The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty. 

 Her message is committed To hands I cannot see; For love of her, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me!

I. LIFE. 

I. 

SUCCESS. 

[Published in "A Masque of Poets"at the request of "H. H. , " the author'sfellow-townswoman and friend. ]

Success is counted sweetestBy those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectarRequires sorest need. 

Not one of all the purple hostWho took the flag to-dayCan tell the definition, So clear, of victory, As he, defeated, dying, On whose forbidden earThe distant strains of triumphBreak, agonized and clear!

II. 

Our share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning. 

Here a star, and there a star, Some lose their way. Here a mist, and there a mist, Afterwards -- day!

III. 

ROUGE ET NOIR. 

Soul, wilt thou toss again?By just such a hazardHundreds have lost, indeed, But tens have won an all. 

Angels' breathless ballotLingers to record thee;Imps in eager caucusRaffle for my soul. 

IV. 

ROUGE GAGNE. 

'T is so much joy! 'T is so much joy!If I should fail, what poverty!And yet, as poor as IHave ventured all upon a throw;Have gained! Yes! Hesitated soThis side the victory!

Life is but life, and death but death!Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!And if, indeed, I fail, At least to know the worst is sweet. Defeat means nothing but defeat, No drearier can prevail!

And if I gain, -- oh, gun at sea, Oh, bells that in the steeples be, At first repeat it slow!For heaven is a different thingConjectured, and waked sudden in, And might o'erwhelm me so!

V. 

Glee! The great storm is over!Four have recovered the land;Forty gone down togetherInto the boiling sand. 

Ring, for the scant salvation!Toll, for the bonnie souls, --Neighbor and friend and bridegroom, Spinning upon the shoals!

How they will tell the shipwreckWhen winter shakes the door, Till the children ask, "But the forty?Did they come back no more?"

Then a silence suffuses the story, And a softness the teller's eye;And the children no further question, And only the waves reply. 

VI. 

If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain;If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robinUnto his nest again, I shall not live in vain. 

VII. 

ALMOST!

Within my reach!I could have touched!I might have chanced that way!Soft sauntered through the village, Sauntered as soft away!So unsuspected violetsWithin the fields lie low, Too late for striving fingersThat passed, an hour ago. 

VIII. 

A wounded deer leaps highest, I've heard the hunter tell;'T is but the ecstasy of death, And then the brake is still. 

The smitten rock that gushes, The trampled steel that springs;A cheek is always redderJust where the hectic stings!

Mirth is the mail of anguish, In which it cautions arm, Lest anybody spy the bloodAnd "You're hurt" exclaim!

IX. 

The heart asks pleasure first, And then, excuse from pain;And then, those little anodynesThat deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;And then, if it should beThe will of its Inquisitor, The liberty to die. 

X. 

IN A LIBRARY. 

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't isTo meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore;A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to makeTo times when he was young. 

His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfoldOn what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old;

What interested scholars most, What competitions ranWhen Plato was a certainty. And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl, And Beatrice woreThe gown that Dante deified. Facts, centuries before, He traverses familiar, As one should come to townAnd tell you all your dreams were true;He lived where dreams were sown. 

His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go;Old volumes shake their vellum headsAnd tantalize, just so. 

XI. 

Much madness is divinest senseTo a discerning eye;Much sense the starkest madness. 'T is the majorityIn this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane;Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain. XII. 

I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it;The mighty merchant smiled. 

Brazil? He twirled a button, Without a glance my way:"But, madam, is there nothing elseThat we can show to-day?"

XIII. 

EXCLUSION. 

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door;On her divine majorityObtrude no more. 

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausingAt her low gate;Unmoved, an emperor is kneelingUpon her mat. 

I've known her from an ample nationChoose one;Then close the valves of her attentionLike stone. 

XIV. 

THE SECRET. 

Some things that fly there be, --Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:Of these no elegy. 

Some things that stay there be, --Grief, hills, eternity:Nor this behooveth me. 

There are, that resting, rise. Can I expound the skies?How still the riddle lies!

XV. 

THE LONELY HOUSE. 

I know some lonely houses off the roadA robber 'd like the look of, --Wooden barred, And windows hanging low, Inviting toA portico, Where two could creep:One hand the tools, The other peepTo make sure all's asleep. Old-fashioned eyes, Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night, With just a clock, --But they could gag the tick, And mice won't bark;And so the walls don't tell, None will. 

A pair of spectacles ajar just stir --An almanac's aware. Was it the mat winked, Or a nervous star?The moon slides down the stairTo see who's there. 

There's plunder, -- where?Tankard, or spoon, Earring, or stone, A watch, some ancient broochTo match the grandmamma, Staid sleeping there. 

Day rattles, too, Stealth's slow;The sun has got as farAs the third sycamore. Screams chanticleer, "Who's there?"And echoes, trains away, Sneer -- "Where?"While the old couple, just astir, Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

XVI. 

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe. 

Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no countryRegards with patriot love. 

We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feetAnd uniforms of snow. 

XVII. 

DAWN. 

When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so nearThat we can touch the spaces, It 's time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready, And wonder we could careFor that old faded midnightThat frightened but an hour. 

XVIII. 

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS. 

Read, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter;What they renounced, Till we are less afraid;How many times they boreThe faithful witness, Till we are helped, As if a kingdom cared!

Read then of faithThat shone above the fagot;Clear strains of hymnThe river could not drown;Brave names of menAnd celestial women, Passed out of recordInto renown!

XIX. 

THE MYSTERY OF PAIN. 

Pain has an element of blank;It cannot recollectWhen it began, or if there wereA day when it was not. 

It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms containIts past, enlightened to perceiveNew periods of pain. 

XX. 

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl;Not all the vats upon the RhineYield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue. 

When landlords turn the drunken beeOut of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tipplerLeaning against the sun!

XXI. 

A BOOK. 

He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!

XXII. 

I had no time to hate, becauseThe grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample ICould finish enmity. 

Nor had I time to love; but sinceSome industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me. 

XXIII. 

UNRETURNING. 

'T was such a little, little boatThat toddled down the bay!'T was such a gallant, gallant seaThat beckoned it away!

'T was such a greedy, greedy waveThat licked it from the coast;Nor ever guessed the stately sailsMy little craft was lost!

XXIV. 

Whether my bark went down at sea, Whether she met with gales, Whether to isles enchantedShe bent her docile sails;

By what mystic mooringShe is held to-day, --This is the errand of the eyeOut upon the bay. 

XXV. 

Belshazzar had a letter, --He never had but one;Belshazzar's correspondentConcluded and begunIn that immortal copyThe conscience of us allCan read without its glassesOn revelation's wall. 

XXVI. 

The brain within its grooveRuns evenly and true;But let a splinter swerve, 'T were easier for youTo put the water backWhen floods have slit the hills, And scooped a turnpike for themselves, And blotted out the mills!

II. LOVE. 

I. 

MINE. 

Mine by the right of the white election!Mine by the royal seal!Mine by the sign in the scarlet prisonBars cannot conceal!

Mine, here in vision and in veto!Mine, by the grave's repealTitled, confirmed, -- delirious charter!Mine, while the ages steal!

II. 

BEQUEST. 

You left me, sweet, two legacies, --A legacy of loveA Heavenly Father would content, Had He the offer of;

You left me boundaries of painCapacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me. 

III. 

Alter? When the hills do. Falter? When the sunQuestion if his gloryBe the perfect one. 

Surfeit? When the daffodilDoth of the dew:Even as herself, O friend!I will of you!

IV. 

SUSPENSE. 

Elysium is as far as toThe very nearest room, If in that room a friend awaitFelicity or doom. 

What fortitude the soul contains, That it can so endureThe accent of a coming foot, The opening of a door!

V. 

SURRENDER. 

Doubt me, my dim companion!Why, God would be contentWith but a fraction of the lovePoured thee without a stint. The whole of me, forever, What more the woman can, --Say quick, that I may dower theeWith last delight I own!

It cannot be my spirit, For that was thine before;I ceded all of dust I knew, --What opulence the moreHad I, a humble maiden, Whose farthest of degreeWas that she might, Some distant heaven, Dwell timidly with thee!

VI. 

If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer byWith half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly. 

If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls. 

If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers droppedInto Van Diemen's land. 

If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity. 

But now, all ignorant of the lengthOf time's uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting. 

VII. 

WITH A FLOWER. 

I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too --And angels know the rest. 

I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for meAlmost a loneliness. 

VIII. 

PROOF. 

That I did always love, I bring thee proof:That till I lovedI did not love enough. 

That I shall love alway, I offer theeThat love is life, And life hath immortality. 

This, dost thou doubt, sweet?Then have INothing to showBut Calvary. 

IX. 

Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows, That any brook is there;And yet your little draught of lifeIs daily drunken there. 

Then look out for the little brook in March, When the rivers overflow, And the snows come hurrying from the hills, And the bridges often go. 

And later, in August it may be, When the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of lifeSome burning noon go dry!

X. 

TRANSPLANTED. 

As if some little Arctic flower, Upon the polar hem, Went wandering down the latitudes, Until it puzzled cameTo continents of summer, To firmaments of sun, To strange, bright crowds of flowers, And birds of foreign tongue!I say, as if this little flowerTo Eden wandered in --What then? Why, nothing, only, Your inference therefrom!

XI. 

THE OUTLET. 

My river runs to thee:Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously!

I'll fetch thee brooksFrom spotted nooks, --

Say, sea, Take me!

XII. 

IN VAIN. 

I cannot live with you, It would be life, And life is over thereBehind the shelf

The sexton keeps the key to, Putting upOur life, his porcelain, Like a cup

Discarded of the housewife, Quaint or broken;A newer Sevres pleases, Old ones crack. 

I could not die with you, For one must waitTo shut the other's gaze down, --You could not. 

And I, could I stand byAnd see you freeze, Without my right of frost, Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise with you, Because your faceWould put out Jesus', That new grace

Glow plain and foreignOn my homesick eye, Except that you, than heShone closer by. 

They'd judge us -- how?For you served Heaven, you know, Or sought to;I could not, Because you saturated sight, And I had no more eyesFor sordid excellenceAs Paradise. 

And were you lost, I would be, Though my nameRang loudestOn the heavenly fame. 

And were you saved, And I condemned to beWhere you were not, That self were hell to me. 

So we must keep apart, You there, I here, With just the door ajarThat oceans are, And prayer, And that pale sustenance, Despair!

XIII. 

RENUNCIATION. 

There came a day at summer's fullEntirely for me;I thought that such were for the saints, Where revelations be. 

The sun, as common, went abroad, The flowers, accustomed, blew, As if no soul the solstice passedThat maketh all things new. 

The time was scarce profaned by speech;The symbol of a wordWas needless, as at sacramentThe wardrobe of our Lord. 

Each was to each the sealed church, Permitted to commune this time, Lest we too awkward showAt supper of the Lamb. 

The hours slid fast, as hours will, Clutched tight by greedy hands;So faces on two decks look back, Bound to opposing lands. 

And so, when all the time had failed, Without external sound, Each bound the other's crucifix, We gave no other bond. 

Sufficient troth that we shall rise --Deposed, at length, the grave --To that new marriage, justifiedThrough Calvaries of Love!

XIV. 

LOVE'S BAPTISM. 

I'm ceded, I've stopped being theirs;The name they dropped upon my faceWith water, in the country church, Is finished using now, And they can put it with my dolls, My childhood, and the string of spoolsI've finished threading too. 

Baptized before without the choice, But this time consciously, of graceUnto supremest name, Called to my full, the crescent dropped, Existence's whole arc filled upWith one small diadem. 

My second rank, too small the first, Crowned, crowing on my father's breast, A half unconscious queen;But this time, adequate, erect, With will to choose or to reject. And I choose -- just a throne. 

XV. 

RESURRECTION. 

'T was a long parting, but the timeFor interview had come;Before the judgment-seat of God, The last and second time

These fleshless lovers met, A heaven in a gaze, A heaven of heavens, the privilegeOf one another's eyes. 

No lifetime set on them, Apparelled as the newUnborn, except they had beheld, Born everlasting now. 

Was bridal e'er like this?A paradise, the host, And cherubim and seraphimThe most familiar guest. 

XVI. 

APOCALYPSE. 

I'm wife; I've finished that, That other state;I'm Czar, I'm woman now:It's safer so. 

How odd the girl's life looksBehind this soft eclipse!I think that earth seems soTo those in heaven now. 

This being comfort, thenThat other kind was pain;But why compare?I'm wife! stop there!

XVII. 

THE WIFE. 

She rose to his requirement, droppedThe playthings of her lifeTo take the honorable workOf woman and of wife. 

If aught she missed in her new dayOf amplitude, or awe, Or first prospective, or the goldIn using wore away, It lay unmentioned, as the seaDevelops pearl and weed, But only to himself is knownThe fathoms they abide. 

XVIII. 

APOTHEOSIS. 

Come slowly, Eden!Lips unused to thee, Bashful, sip thy jasmines, As the fainting bee, Reaching late his flower, Round her chamber hums, Counts his nectars -- enters, And is lost in balms!

III. NATURE. 

I. 

New feet within my garden go, New fingers stir the sod;A troubadour upon the elmBetrays the solitude. 

New children play upon the green, New weary sleep below;And still the pensive spring returns, And still the punctual snow!

II. 

MAY-FLOWER. 

Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss, Known by the knoll, Next to the robinIn every human soul. 

Bold little beauty, Bedecked with thee, Nature forswearsAntiquity. 

III. 

WHY?

The murmur of a beeA witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why, 'T were easier to dieThan tell. 

The red upon the hillTaketh away my will;If anybody sneer, Take care, for God is here, That's all. 

The breaking of the dayAddeth to my degree;If any ask me how, Artist, who drew me so, Must tell!

IV. 

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower?But I could never sell. If you would like to borrowUntil the daffodil

Unties her yellow bonnetBeneath the village door, Until the bees, from clover rowsTheir hock and sherry draw, Why, I will lend until just then, But not an hour more!

V. 

The pedigree of honeyDoes not concern the bee;A clover, any time, to himIs aristocracy. 

VI. 

A SERVICE OF SONG. 

Some keep the Sabbath going to church;I keep it staying at home, With a bobolink for a chorister, And an orchard for a dome. 

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;I just wear my wings, And instead of tolling the bell for church, Our little sexton sings. 

God preaches, -- a noted clergyman, --And the sermon is never long;So instead of getting to heaven at last, I'm going all along!

VII. 

The bee is not afraid of me, I know the butterfly;The pretty people in the woodsReceive me cordially. 

The brooks laugh louder when I come, The breezes madder play. Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?Wherefore, O summer's day?

VIII. 

SUMMER'S ARMIES. 

Some rainbow coming from the fair!Some vision of the world CashmereI confidently see!Or else a peacock's purple train, Feather by feather, on the plainFritters itself away!

The dreamy butterflies bestir, Lethargic pools resume the whirOf last year's sundered tune. From some old fortress on the sunBaronial bees march, one by one, In murmuring platoon!

The robins stand as thick to-dayAs flakes of snow stood yesterday, On fence and roof and twig. The orchis binds her feather onFor her old lover, Don the Sun, Revisiting the bog!

Without commander, countless, still, The regiment of wood and hillIn bright detachment stand. Behold! Whose multitudes are these?The children of whose turbaned seas, Or what Circassian land?

IX. 

THE GRASS. 

The grass so little has to do, --A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunesThe breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lapAnd bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine, --A duchess were too commonFor such a noticing. 

And even when it dies, to passIn odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine. 

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away, --The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay!

X. 

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of butterfly. 

If town it have, beyond itself, 'T is that I cannot say;I only sigh, -- no vehicleBears me along that way. 

XI. 

SUMMER SHOWER. 

A drop fell on the apple tree, Another on the roof;A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. 

A few went out to help the brook, That went to help the sea. Myself conjectured, Were they pearls, What necklaces could be!

The dust replaced in hoisted roads, The birds jocoser sung;The sunshine threw his hat away, The orchards spangles hung. 

The breezes brought dejected lutes, And bathed them in the glee;The East put out a single flag, And signed the fete away. 

XII. 

PSALM OF THE DAY. 

A something in a summer's day, As slow her flambeaux burn away, Which solemnizes me. 

A something in a summer's noon, --An azure depth, a wordless tune, Transcending ecstasy. 

And still within a summer's nightA something so transporting bright, I clap my hands to see;

Then veil my too inspecting face, Lest such a subtle, shimmering graceFlutter too far for me. 

The wizard-fingers never rest, The purple brook within the breastStill chafes its narrow bed;

Still rears the East her amber flag, Guides still the sun along the cragHis caravan of red, Like flowers that heard the tale of dews, But never deemed the dripping prizeAwaited their low brows;

Or bees, that thought the summer's nameSome rumor of deliriumNo summer could for them;

Or Arctic creature, dimly stirredBy tropic hint, -- some travelled birdImported to the wood;

Or wind's bright signal to the ear, Making that homely and severe, Contented, known, before

The heaven unexpected came, To lives that thought their worshippingA too presumptuous psalm. 

XIII. 

THE SEA OF SUNSET. 

This is the land the sunset washes, These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;Where it rose, or whither it rushes, These are the western mystery!

Night after night her purple trafficStrews the landing with opal bales;Merchantmen poise upon horizons, Dip, and vanish with fairy sails. 

XIV. 

PURPLE CLOVER. 

There is a flower that bees prefer, And butterflies desire;To gain the purple democratThe humming-birds aspire. 

And whatsoever insect pass, A honey bears awayProportioned to his several dearthAnd her capacity. 

Her face is rounder than the moon, And ruddier than the gownOf orchis in the pasture, Or rhododendron worn. 

She doth not wait for June;Before the world is greenHer sturdy little countenanceAgainst the wind is seen, Contending with the grass, Near kinsman to herself, For privilege of sod and sun, Sweet litigants for life. 

And when the hills are full, And newer fashions blow, Doth not retract a single spiceFor pang of jealousy. 

Her public is the noon, Her providence the sun, Her progress by the bee proclaimedIn sovereign, swerveless tune. 

The bravest of the host, Surrendering the last, Nor even of defeat awareWhen cancelled by the frost. 

XV. 

THE BEE. 

Like trains of cars on tracks of plushI hear the level bee:A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assaultTheir chivalry consumes, While he, victorious, tilts awayTo vanquish other blooms. 

His feet are shod with gauze, His helmet is of gold;His breast, a single onyxWith chrysoprase, inlaid. 

His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune;Oh, for a bee's experienceOf clovers and of noon!

XVI. 

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawnIndicative that suns go down;The notice to the startled grassThat darkness is about to pass. 

XVII. 

As children bid the guest good-night, And then reluctant turn, My flowers raise their pretty lips, Then put their nightgowns on. 

As children caper when they wake, Merry that it is morn, My flowers from a hundred cribsWill peep, and prance again. 

XVIII. 

Angels in the early morningMay be seen the dews among, Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:Do the buds to them belong?

Angels when the sun is hottestMay be seen the sands among, Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying;Parched the flowers they bear along. 

XIX. 

So bashful when I spied her, So pretty, so ashamed!So hidden in her leaflets, Lest anybody find;

So breathless till I passed her, So helpless when I turnedAnd bore her, struggling, blushing, Her simple haunts beyond!

For whom I robbed the dingle, For whom betrayed the dell, Many will doubtless ask me, But I shall never tell!

XX. 

TWO WORLDS. 

It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame. 

Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day;No blackbird bates his jargoningFor passing Calvary. 

Auto-da-fe and judgmentAre nothing to the bee;His separation from his roseTo him seems misery. 

XXI. 

THE MOUNTAIN. 

The mountain sat upon the plainIn his eternal chair, His observation omnifold, His inquest everywhere. 

The seasons prayed around his knees, Like children round a sire:Grandfather of the days is he, Of dawn the ancestor. 

XXII. 

A DAY. 

I'll tell you how the sun rose, --A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. 

The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!"

 * * *

But how he set, I know not. There seemed a purple stileWhich little yellow boys and girlsWere climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side, A dominie in grayPut gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away. 

XXIII. 

The butterfly's assumption-gown, In chrysoprase apartments hung, This afternoon put on. 

How condescending to descend, And be of buttercups the friend In a New England town!

XXIV. 

THE WIND. 

Of all the sounds despatched abroad, There's not a charge to meLike that old measure in the boughs, That phraseless melody

The wind does, working like a handWhose fingers brush the sky, Then quiver down, with tufts of tunePermitted gods and me. 

When winds go round and round in bands, And thrum upon the door, And birds take places overhead, To bear them orchestra, I crave him grace, of summer boughs, If such an outcast be, He never heard that fleshless chantRise solemn in the tree, As if some caravan of soundOn deserts, in the sky, Had broken rank, Then knit, and passedIn seamless company. 

XXV. 

DEATH AND LIFE. 

Apparently with no surpriseTo any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its playIn accidental power. The blond assassin passes on, The sun proceeds unmovedTo measure off another dayFor an approving God. 

XXVI. 

'T WAS later when the summer wentThan when the cricket came, And yet we knew that gentle clockMeant nought but going home. 

'T was sooner when the cricket wentThan when the winter came, Yet that pathetic pendulumKeeps esoteric time. 

XXVII. 

INDIAN SUMMER. 

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look. 

These are the days when skies put onThe old, old sophistries of June, --A blue and gold mistake. 

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibilityInduces my belief, Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered airHurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join, Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!

XXVIII. 

AUTUMN. 

The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown;The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. 

The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on. 

XXIX. 

BECLOUDED. 

The sky is low, the clouds are mean, A travelling flake of snowAcross a barn or through a rutDebates if it will go. 

A narrow wind complains all dayHow some one treated him;Nature, like us, is sometimes caughtWithout her diadem. 

XXX. 

THE HEMLOCK. 

I think the hemlock likes to standUpon a marge of snow;It suits his own austerity, And satisfies an awe

That men must slake in wilderness, Or in the desert cloy, --An instinct for the hoar, the bald, Lapland's necessity. 

The hemlock's nature thrives on cold;The gnash of northern windsIs sweetest nutriment to him, His best Norwegian wines. 

To satin races he is nought;But children on the DonBeneath his tabernacles play, And Dnieper wrestlers run. 

XXXI. 

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes. 

Heavenly hurt it gives us;We can find no scar, But internal differenceWhere the meanings are. 

None may teach it anything, ' T is the seal, despair, --An imperial afflictionSent us of the air. 

When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath;When it goes, 't is like the distanceOn the look of death. 

IV. TIME AND ETERNITY. 

I. 

One dignity delays for all, One mitred afternoon. None can avoid this purple, None evade this crown. 

Coach it insures, and footmen, Chamber and state and throng;Bells, also, in the village, As we ride grand along. 

What dignified attendants, What service when we pause!How loyally at partingTheir hundred hats they raise!

How pomp surpassing ermine, When simple you and IPresent our meek escutcheon, And claim the rank to die!

II. 

TOO LATE. 

Delayed till she had ceased to know, Delayed till in its vest of snow Her loving bosom lay. An hour behind the fleeting breath, Later by just an hour than death, -- Oh, lagging yesterday!

Could she have guessed that it would be;Could but a crier of the glee Have climbed the distant hill;Had not the bliss so slow a pace, --Who knows but this surrendered face Were undefeated still?

Oh, if there may departing beAny forgot by victory In her imperial round, Show them this meek apparelled thing, That could not stop to be a king, Doubtful if it be crowned!

III. 

ASTRA CASTRA. 

Departed to the judgment, A mighty afternoon;Great clouds like ushers leaning, Creation looking on. 

The flesh surrendered, cancelled, The bodiless begun;Two worlds, like audiences, disperseAnd leave the soul alone. 

IV. 

Safe in their alabaster chambers, Untouched by morning and untouched by noon, Sleep the meek members of the resurrection, Rafter of satin, and roof of stone. 

Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;Babbles the bee in a stolid ear;Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence, --Ah, what sagacity perished here!

Grand go the years in the crescent above them;Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row, Diadems drop and Doges surrender, Soundless as dots on a disk of snow. 

V. 

On this long storm the rainbow rose, On this late morn the sun;The clouds, like listless elephants, Horizons straggled down. 

The birds rose smiling in their nests, The gales indeed were done;Alas! how heedless were the eyesOn whom the summer shone!

The quiet nonchalance of deathNo daybreak can bestir;The slow archangel's syllablesMust awaken her. 

VI. 

FROM THE CHRYSALIS. 

My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I'm feeling for the air;A dim capacity for wingsDegrades the dress I wear. 

A power of butterfly must beThe aptitude to fly, Meadows of majesty concedesAnd easy sweeps of sky. 

So I must baffle at the hintAnd cipher at the sign, And make much blunder, if at lastI take the clew divine. 

VII. 

SETTING SAIL. 

Exultation is the goingOf an inland soul to sea, --Past the houses, past the headlands, Into deep eternity!

Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understandThe divine intoxicationOf the first league out from land?

VIII. 

Look back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best;How softly sinks his trembling sunIn human nature's west!

IX. 

A train went through a burial gate, A bird broke forth and sang, And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throatTill all the churchyard rang;

And then adjusted his little notes, And bowed and sang again. Doubtless, he thought it meet of himTo say good-by to men. 

X. 

I died for beauty, but was scarceAdjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lainIn an adjoining room. 

He questioned softly why I failed?"For beauty, " I replied. "And I for truth, -- the two are one;We brethren are, " he said. 

And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names. 

XI. 

"TROUBLED ABOUT MANY THINGS. "

How many times these low feet staggered, Only the soldered mouth can tell;Try! can you stir the awful rivet?Try! can you lift the hasps of steel?

Stroke the cool forehead, hot so often, Lift, if you can, the listless hair;Handle the adamantine fingersNever a thimble more shall wear. 

Buzz the dull flies on the chamber window;Brave shines the sun through the freckled pane;Fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling --Indolent housewife, in daisies lain!

XII. 

REAL. 

I like a look of agony, Because I know it 's true;Men do not sham convulsion, Nor simulate a throe. 

The eyes glaze once, and that is death. Impossible to feignThe beads upon the foreheadBy homely anguish strung. 

XIII. 

THE FUNERAL. 

That short, potential stirThat each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious'T is almost consequence, Is the eclat of death. Oh, thou unknown renownThat not a beggar would accept, Had he the power to spurn!

XIV. 

I went to thank her, But she slept;Her bed a funnelled stone, With nosegays at the head and foot, That travellers had thrown, Who went to thank her;But she slept. 'T was short to cross the seaTo look upon her like, alive, But turning back 't was slow. 

XV. 

I've seen a dying eyeRun round and round a roomIn search of something, as it seemed, Then cloudier become;And then, obscure with fog, And then be soldered down, Without disclosing what it be, 'T were blessed to have seen. 

XVI. 

REFUGE. 

The clouds their backs together laid, The north begun to push, The forests galloped till they fell, The lightning skipped like mice;The thunder crumbled like a stuff --How good to be safe in tombs, Where nature's temper cannot reach, Nor vengeance ever comes!

XVII. 

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea;Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. 

I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven;Yet certain am I of the spotAs if the chart were given. 

XVIII. 

PLAYMATES. 

God permits industrious angelsAfternoons to play. I met one, -- forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightway. 

God calls home the angels promptlyAt the setting sun;I missed mine. How dreary marbles, After playing Crown!

XIX. 

To know just how he suffered would be dear;To know if any human eyes were nearTo whom he could intrust his wavering gaze, Until it settled firm on Paradise. 

To know if he was patient, part content, Was dying as he thought, or different;Was it a pleasant day to die, And did the sunshine face his way?

What was his furthest mind, of home, or God, Or what the distant sayAt news that he ceased human natureOn such a day?

And wishes, had he any?Just his sigh, accented, Had been legible to me. And was he confident untilIll fluttered out in everlasting well?

And if he spoke, what name was best, What first, What one broke off withAt the drowsiest?

Was he afraid, or tranquil?Might he knowHow conscious consciousness could grow, Till love that was, and love too blest to be, Meet -- and the junction be Eternity?

XX. 

The last night that she lived, It was a common night, Except the dying; this to usMade nature different. 

We noticed smallest things, --Things overlooked before, By this great light upon our mindsItalicized, as 't were. 

That others could existWhile she must finish quite, A jealousy for her aroseSo nearly infinite. 

We waited while she passed;It was a narrow time, Too jostled were our souls to speak, At length the notice came. 

She mentioned, and forgot;Then lightly as a reedBent to the water, shivered scarce, Consented, and was dead. 

And we, we placed the hair, And drew the head erect;And then an awful leisure was, Our faith to regulate. 

XXI. 

THE FIRST LESSON. 

Not in this world to see his faceSounds long, until I read the placeWhere this is said to beBut just the primer to a lifeUnopened, rare, upon the shelf, Clasped yet to him and me. 

And yet, my primer suits me soI would not choose a book to knowThan that, be sweeter wise;Might some one else so learned be, And leave me just my A B C, Himself could have the skies. 

XXII. 

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth, --

The sweeping up the heart, And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity. 

XXIII. 

I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute, And many hurt;But what of that?

I reason, we could die:The best vitalityCannot excel decay;But what of that?

I reason that in heavenSomehow, it will be even, Some new equation given;But what of that?

XXIV. 

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?Not death; for who is he?The porter of my father's lodgeAs much abasheth me. 

Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thingThat comprehendeth meIn one or more existencesAt Deity's decree. 

Of resurrection? Is the eastAfraid to trust the mornWith her fastidious forehead?As soon impeach my crown!

XXV. 

DYING. 

The sun kept setting, setting still;No hue of afternoonUpon the village I perceived, --From house to house 't was 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 myselfUnto my seeming make?

How well I knew the light before!I could not see it now. 'T is dying, I am doing; butI'm not afraid to know. 

XXVI. 

Two swimmers wrestled on the sparUntil the morning sun, When one turned smiling to the land. O God, the other one!

The stray ships passing spied a faceUpon the waters borne, With eyes in death still begging raised, And hands beseeching thrown. 

XXVII. 

THE CHARIOT. 

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality. 

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put awayMy labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. 

We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done;We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. 

We paused before a house that seemedA swelling of the ground;The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. 

Since then 't is centuries; but eachFeels shorter than the dayI first surmised the horses' headsWere toward eternity. 

XXVIII. 

She went as quiet as the dewFrom a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she returnAt the accustomed hour!

She dropt as softly as a starFrom out my summer's eve;Less skilful than LeverrierIt's sorer to believe!

XXIX. 

RESURGAM. 

At last to be identified!At last, the lamps upon thy side, The rest of life to see!Past midnight, past the morning star!Past sunrise! Ah! what leagues there areBetween our feet and day!

XXX. 

Except to heaven, she is nought;Except for angels, lone;Except to some wide-wandering bee, A flower superfluous blown;

Except for winds, provincial;Except by butterflies, Unnoticed as a single dewThat on the acre lies. 

The smallest housewife in the grass, Yet take her from the lawn, And somebody has lost the faceThat made existence home!

XXXI. 

Death is a dialogue betweenThe spirit and the dust. "Dissolve, " says Death. The Spirit, "Sir, I have another trust. "

Death doubts it, argues from the ground. The Spirit turns away, Just laying off, for evidence, An overcoat of clay. 

XXXII. 

It was too late for man, But early yet for God;Creation impotent to help, But prayer remained our side. 

How excellent the heaven, When earth cannot be had;How hospitable, then, the faceOf our old neighbor, God!

XXXIII. 

ALONG THE POTOMAC. 

When I was small, a woman died. To-day her only boyWent up from the Potomac, His face all victory, To look at her; how slowlyThe seasons must have turnedTill bullets clipt an angle, And he passed quickly round!

If pride shall be in ParadiseI never can decide;Of their imperial conduct, No person testified. 

But proud in apparition, That woman and her boyPass back and forth before my brain, As ever in the sky. 

XXXIV. 

The daisy follows soft the sun, And when his golden walk is done, Sits shyly at his feet. He, waking, finds the flower near. "Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?" "Because, sir, love is sweet!"

We are the flower, Thou the sun!Forgive us, if as days decline, We nearer steal to Thee, --Enamoured of the parting west, The peace, the flight, the amethyst, Night's possibility!

XXXV. 

EMANCIPATION. 

No rack can torture me, My soul's at libertyBehind this mortal boneThere knits a bolder one

You cannot prick with saw, Nor rend with scymitar. Two bodies therefore be;Bind one, and one will flee. 

The eagle of his nestNo easier divestAnd gain the sky, Than mayest thou, Except thyself may beThine enemy;Captivity is consciousness, So's liberty. 

XXXVI. 

LOST. 

I lost a world the other day. Has anybody found?You'll know it by the row of starsAround its forehead bound. 

A rich man might not notice it;Yet to my frugal eyeOf more esteem than ducats. Oh, find it, sir, for me!

XXXVII. 

If I shouldn't be aliveWhen the robins come, Give the one in red cravatA memorial crumb. 

If I couldn't thank you, Being just asleep, You will know I'm tryingWith my granite lip!

XXXVIII. 

Sleep is supposed to be, By souls of sanity, The shutting of the eye. 

Sleep is the station grandDown which on either handThe hosts of witness stand!

Morn is supposed to be, By people of degree, The breaking of the day. 

Morning has not occurred!That shall aurora beEast of eternity;

One with the banner gay, One in the red array, --That is the break of day. 

XXXIX. 

I shall know why, when time is over, And I have ceased to wonder why;Christ will explain each separate anguishIn the fair schoolroom of the sky. 

He will tell me what Peter promised, And I, for wonder at his woe, I shall forget the drop of anguishThat scalds me now, that scalds me now. 

XL. 

I never lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod;Twice have I stood a beggarBefore the door of God!

Angels, twice descending, Reimbursed my store. Burglar, banker, father, I am poor once more!

POEMS

by EMILY DICKINSON

Second Series

Edited by two of her friends

MABEL LOOMIS TODD and T. W. HIGGINSON

PREFACE

The eagerness with which the first volume of Emily Dickinson'spoems has been read shows very clearly that all our alleged modernartificiality does not prevent a prompt appreciation of thequalities of directness and simplicity in approaching the greatestthemes, --life and love and death. That "irresistible needle-touch, "as one of her best critics has called it, piercing at once the verycore of a thought, has found a response as wide and sympathetic asit has been unexpected even to those who knew best her compellingpower. This second volume, while open to the same criticism as toform with its predecessor, shows also the same shining beauties. 

Although Emily Dickinson had been in the habit of sendingoccasional poems to friends and correspondents, the full extent ofher writing was by no means imagined by them. Her friend "H. H. "must at least have suspected it, for in a letter dated 5thSeptember, 1884, she wrote:--

MY DEAR FRIEND, -- What portfolios full of versesyou must have! It is a cruel wrong to your "day andgeneration" that you will not give them light. 

If such a thing should happen as that I should outliveyou, I wish you would make me your literary legateeand executor. Surely after you are what is called"dead" you will be willing that the poor ghosts youhave left behind should be cheered and pleased by yourverses, will you not? You ought to be. I do not thinkwe have a right to withhold from the world a word ora thought any more than a deed which might help asingle soul. . . . 

 Truly yours, HELEN JACKSON. 

The "portfolios" were found, shortly after Emily Dickinson's death, by her sister and only surviving housemate. Most of the poems hadbeen carefully copied on sheets of note-paper, and tied in littlefascicules, each of six or eight sheets. While many of them bearevidence of having been thrown off at white heat, still more hadreceived thoughtful revision. There is the frequent addition ofrather perplexing foot-notes, affording large choice of words andphrases. And in the copies which she sent to friends, sometimes oneform, sometimes another, is found to have been used. Withoutimportant exception, her friends have generously placed at thedisposal of the Editors any poems they had received from her; andthese have given the obvious advantage of comparison among severalrenderings of the same verse. 

To what further rigorous pruning her verses would have beensubjected had she published them herself, we cannot know. Theyshould be regarded in many cases as merely the first strong andsuggestive sketches of an artist, intended to be embodied at sometime in the finished picture. 

Emily Dickinson appears to have written her first poems in thewinter of 1862. In a letter to oone of the present Editors theApril following, she says, "I made no verse, but one or two, untilthis winter. "

The handwriting was at first somewhat like the delicate, runningItalian hand of our elder gentlewomen; but as she advanced inbreadth of thought, it grew bolder and more abrupt, until in herlatest years each letter stood distinct and separate from itsfellows. In most of her poems, particularly the later ones, everything by way of punctuation was discarded, except numerousdashes; and all important words began with capitals. The effect ofa page of her more recent manuscript is exceedingly quaint andstrong. The fac-simile given in the present volume is from one ofthe earlier transition periods. Although there is nowhere a date, the handwriting makes it possible to arrange the poems with generalchronologic accuracy. 

As a rule, the verses were without titles; but "A Country Burial, ""A Thunder-Storm, " "The Humming-Bird, " and a few others were namedby their author, frequently at the end, --sometimes only in theaccompanying note, if sent to a friend. 

The variation of readings, with the fact that she often wrote inpencil and not always clearly, have at times thrown a good deal ofresponsibility upon her Editors. But all interference notabsolutely inevitable has been avoided. The very roughness of herrendering is part of herself, and not lightly to be touched; for itseems in many cases that she intentionally avoided the smoother andmore usual rhymes. 

Like impressionist pictures, or Wagner's rugged music, the veryabsence of conventional form challenges attention. In EmilyDickinson's exacting hands, the especial, intrinsic fitness of aparticular order of words might not be sacrificed to anythingvirtually extrinsic; and her verses all show a strange cadence ofinner rhythmical music. Lines are always daringly constructed, andthe "thought-rhyme" appears frequently, --appealing, indeed, to anunrecognized sense more elusive than hearing. 

Emily Dickinson scrutinized everything with clear-eyed frankness. Every subject was proper ground for legitimate study, even thesombre facts of death and burial, and the unknown life beyond. Shetouches these themes sometimes lightly, sometimes almosthumorously, more often with weird and peculiar power; but she isnever by any chance frivolous or trivial. And while, as one critichas said, she may exhibit toward God "an Emersonian self-possession, "it was because she looked upon all life with a candor as unprejudicedas it is rare. 

She had tried society and the world, and found them lacking. Shewas not an invalid, and she lived in seclusion from nolove-disappointment. Her life was the normal blossoming of a natureintrospective to a high degree, whose best thought could not existin pretence. 

Storm, wind, the wild March sky, sunsets and dawns; the birds andbees, butterflies and flowers of her garden, with a few trustedhuman friends, were sufficient companionship. The coming of thefirst robin was a jubilee beyond crowning of monarch or birthday ofpope; the first red leaf hurrying through "the altered air, " anepoch. Immortality was close about her; and while never morbid ormelancholy, she lived in its presence. 

 MABEL LOOMIS TODD. 

 AMHERST, MASSACHUSETTS, August, I891. 

 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. LIFE. 

I. 

I'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!

II. 

I 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. 

III. 

The 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. 

IV. 

We 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. 

V. 

I found the phrase to every thoughtI ever had, but one;And that defies me, -- as a handDid try to chalk the sun

To races nurtured in the dark; --How would your own begin?Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin?

VI. 

HOPE. 

Hope 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. 

VII. 

THE WHITE HEAT. 

Dare you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door. Red is the fire's common tint; But when the vivid ore

Has 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. 

VIII. 

TRIUMPHANT. 

Who 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!

IX. 

THE TEST. 

I 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!

X. 

ESCAPE. 

I 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!

XI. 

COMPENSATION. 

For 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. 

XII. 

THE MARTYRS. 

Through 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. 

XIII. 

A PRAYER. 

I 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. 

XIV. 

The thought beneath so slight a filmIs more distinctly seen, --As laces just reveal the surge, Or mists the Apennine. 

XV. 

The 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. 

XVI. 

Surgeons must be very carefulWhen they take the knife!Underneath their fine incisionsStirs the culprit, -- Life!

XVII. 

THE RAILWAY TRAIN. 

I like to see it lap the miles, And lick the valleys up, And stop to feed itself at tanks;And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains, And, supercilious, peerIn shanties by the sides of roads;And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between, Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges;Then, punctual as a star, Stop -- docile and omnipotent --At its own stable door. 

XVIII. 

THE SHOW. 

The show is not the show, But they that go. Menagerie to meMy neighbor be. Fair play --Both went to see. 

XIX. 

Delight 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!

XX. 

A 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. 

XXI. 

Is 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. 

XXII. 

THE RETURN. 

Though 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!

XXIII. 

A 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. 

XXIV. 

TOO MUCH. 

I 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. 

XXV. 

SHIPWRECK. 

It 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. 

XXVI. 

Victory 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!

XXVII. 

ENOUGH. 

God 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. 

XXVIII. 

Experiment to meIs every one I meet. If it contain a kernel?The figure of a nut

Presents upon a tree, Equally plausibly;But meat within is requisite, To squirrels and to me. 

XXIX. 

MY COUNTRY'S WARDROBE. 

My 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. 

XXX. 

Faith is a fine inventionFor gentlemen who see;But microscopes are prudentIn an emergency!

XXXI. 

Except 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. 

XXXII. 

Portraits are to daily facesAs an evening westTo a fine, pedantic sunshineIn a satin vest. 

XXXIII. 

THE DUEL. 

I 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?

XXXIV. 

A 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!

XXXV. 

THE GOAL. 

Each 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. 

XXXVI. 

SIGHT. 

Before 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. 

XXXVII. 

Talk 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!

XXXVIII. 

THE PREACHER. 

He 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!

XXXIX. 

Good 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!

XL. 

When 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. 

XLI. 

DEED. 

A 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. 

XLII. 

TIME'S LESSON. 

Mine 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. 

XLIII. 

REMORSE. 

Remorse 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. 

XLIV. 

THE SHELTER. 

The body grows outside, --The more convenient way, --That if the spirit like to hide, Its temple stands alway

Ajar, secure, inviting;It never did betrayThe soul that asked its shelterIn timid honesty. 

XLV. 

Undue 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. 

XLVI. 

Heart 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!

XLVII. 

I 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. 

XLVIII. 

Unto 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. 

XLIX. 

This 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. 

L. 

HUNGER. 

I 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. 

LI. 

I 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. 

LII. 

To 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!

LIII. 

RETURNING. 

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a faceI never saw before

Stare 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. 

LIV. 

PRAYER. 

Prayer is the little implementThrough which men reachWhere presence is denied them. They fling their speech

By means of it in God's ear;If then He hear, This sums the apparatusComprised in prayer. 

LV. 

I 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?

LVI. 

MELODIES UNHEARD. 

Musicians 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!

LVII. 

CALLED BACK. 

Just 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. LOVE. 

I. 

CHOICE. 

Of 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!

II. 

I 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. 

III. 

Your 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 diadems

So 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!

IV. 

THE CONTRACT. 

I 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 Love

Depreciate 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. 

V. 

THE 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!"

VI. 

The 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. 

VII. 

Wild 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!

VIII. 

AT HOME. 

The 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!"

IX. 

POSSESSION. 

Did 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?

X. 

A 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. 

XI. 

THE LOVERS. 

The 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. 

XII. 

In 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?

XIII. 

The 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. 

XIV. 

He 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?

XV. 

THE LOST JEWEL. 

I 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. 

XVI. 

What 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. NATURE. 

I. 

MOTHER NATURE. 

Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, --Her admonition mild

In 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 down

Her 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 sky

With infinite affectionAnd infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere. 

II. 

OUT OF THE MORNING. 

Will 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!

III. 

At 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. 

IV. 

DAY'S PARLOR. 

The 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!

V. 

THE SUN'S WOOING. 

The 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 king

Trailed 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. 

VI. 

THE ROBIN. 

The 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. 

VII. 

THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY. 

From 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. 

VIII. 

THE BLUEBIRD. 

Before 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!

IX. 

APRIL. 

An 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. 

X. 

THE 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. "

XI. 

MY ROSE. 

Pigmy 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!

XII. 

THE ORIOLE'S SECRET. 

To 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!"

XIII. 

THE ORIOLE. 

One 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. 

XIV. 

IN SHADOW. 

I 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. 

XV. 

THE HUMMING-BIRD. 

A 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. 

XVI. 

SECRETS. 

The 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!

XVII. 

Who 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?

XVIII. 

TWO VOYAGERS. 

Two 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. 

XIX. 

BY THE SEA. 

I 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. 

XX. 

OLD-FASHIONED. 

Arcturus 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!

XXI. 

A TEMPEST. 

An 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!

XXII. 

THE SEA. 

An everywhere of silver, With ropes of sandTo keep it from effacingThe track called land. 

XXIII. 

IN THE GARDEN. 

A 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 head

Like one in danger; cautious, I offered him a crumb, And he unrolled his feathersAnd rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean, Too silver for a seam, Or butterflies, off banks of noon, Leap, plashless, as they swim. 

XXIV. 

THE SNAKE. 

A 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. 

XXV. 

THE MUSHROOM. 

The mushroom is the elf of plants, At evening it is not;At morning in a truffled hutIt stops upon a spot

As 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. 

XXVI. 

THE STORM. 

There 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!

XXVII. 

THE SPIDER. 

A 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. 

XXVIII. 

I 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 refrains

Into the lap of adamant, And spices, and the dew, That stiffens quietly to quartz, Upon her amber shoe. 

XXIX. 

The 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. 

XXX. 

THE WlND'S VISIT. 

The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, "Come in, "I boldly answered; entered thenMy residence within

A 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. 

XXXI. 

Nature 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. 

XXXII. 

GOSSIP. 

The 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. 

XXXIII. 

SIMPLICITY. 

How 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. 

XXXIV. 

STORM. 

It 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. 

XXXV. 

THE RAT. 

The 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. 

XXXVI. 

Frequently 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!

XXXVII. 

A THUNDER-STORM. 

The 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 hands

That held the dams had parted hold, The waters wrecked the sky, But overlooked my father's house, Just quartering a tree. 

XXXVIII. 

WITH FLOWERS. 

South winds jostle them, Bumblebees come, Hover, hesitate, Drink, and are gone. 

Butterflies pauseOn their passage Cashmere;I, softly plucking, Present them here!

XXXIX. 

SUNSET. 

Where ships of purple gently tossOn seas of daffodil, Fantastic sailors mingle, And then -- the wharf is still. 

XL. 

She 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. 

XLI. 

Like 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. 

XLII. 

PROBLEMS. 

Bring 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?

XLIII. 

THE JUGGLER OF DAY. 

Blazing 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!

XLIV. 

MY CRICKET. 

Farther 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. 

XLV. 

As 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. 

XLVI. 

It 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. 

XLVII. 

SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES. 

The 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!

XLVIII. 

FRINGED GENTIAN. 

God 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?"

XLIX. 

NOVEMBER. 

Besides 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!

L. 

THE SNOW. 

It 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 veil

On 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. 

LI. 

THE BLUE JAY. 

No brigadier throughout the yearSo civic as the jay. A neighbor and a warrior too, With shrill felicity

Pursuing 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 ETERNITY. 

I. 

Let 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. 

II. 

Going 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. 

III. 

At 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?

IV. 

EPITAPH. 

Step 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. 

V. 

Morns 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!

VI. 

A 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. 

VII. 

I 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. 

VIII. 

I 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!

IX. 

THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

They 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. 

X. 

The 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!

XI. 

Some, 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. 

XII. 

As 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!

XIII. 

MEMORIALS. 

Death sets a thing significantThe eye had hurried by, Except a perished creatureEntreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanshipsIn crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did, "Industrious until

The 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. 

XIV. 

I 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. 

XV. 

Their 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 eyes

Better than larger values, However true their show;This timid life of evidenceKeeps pleading, "I don't know. "

XVI. 

There 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. 

XVII. 

TRIUMPH. 

Triumph 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!

XVIII. 

Pompless 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!

XIX. 

I 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!

XX. 

FOLLOWING. 

I 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. 

XXI. 

If 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!

XXII. 

THE JOURNEY. 

Our 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. 

XXIII. 

A COUNTRY BURIAL. 

Ample 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. 

XXIV. 

GOING. 

On 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 lie

For 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!

XXV. 

Essential 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. 

XXVI. 

I 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. 

XXVII. 

If 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!

XXVIII. 

AT LENGTH. 

Her final summer was it, And yet we guessed it not;If tenderer industriousnessPervaded her, we thought

A 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!

XXIX. 

GHOSTS. 

One 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. 

XXX. 

VANISHED. 

She 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. 

XXXI. 

PRECEDENCE. 

Wait 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!

XXXII. 

GONE. 

Went 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!

XXXIII. 

REQUIEM. 

Taken 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. 

XXXIV. 

What 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?

XXXV. 

It 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. 

XXXVI. 

TILL THE END. 

I 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!

XXXVII. 

VOID. 

Great 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. 

XXXVIII. 

A 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. 

XXXIX. 

SAVED!

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 mile

Our panting ankle barely gainedWhen night devoured the road;But we stood whispering in the house, And all we said was "Saved"!

XL. 

I 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!

XLI. 

THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE. 

After 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. 

XLII. 

Lay this laurel on the oneToo intrinsic for renown. Laurel! veil your deathless tree, --Him you chasten, that is he!

POEMS

by EMILY DICKINSON

Third Series

Edited by

MABEL LOOMIS TODD

 It's all I have to bring to-day, This, and my heart beside, This, and my heart, and all the fields, And all the meadows wide. Be sure you count, should I forget, -- Some one the sum could tell, -- This, and my heart, and all the bees Which in the clover dwell. 

PREFACE. 

The intellectual activity of Emily Dickinson was so great thata large and characteristic choice is still possible among herliterary material, and this third volume of her verses is putforth in response to the repeated wish of the admirers of herpeculiar genius. Much of Emily Dickinson's prose was rhythmic, --even rhymed, though frequently not set apart in lines. 

Also many verses, written as such, were sent to friends inletters; these were published in 1894, in the volumes of her_Letters_. It has not been necessary, however, to include them inthis Series, and all have been omitted, except three or fourexceptionally strong ones, as "A Book, " and "With Flowers. "

There is internal evidence that many of the poems were simplyspontaneous flashes of insight, apparently unrelated to outwardcircumstance. Others, however, had an obvious personal origin;for example, the verses "I had a Guinea golden, " which seem tohave been sent to some friend travelling in Europe, as a daintyreminder of letter-writing delinquencies. The surroundings inwhich any of Emily Dickinson's verses are known to have beenwritten usually serve to explain them clearly; but in general thepresent volume is full of thoughts needing no interpretation tothose who apprehend this scintillating spirit. 

 M. L. T. 

AMHERST, _October_, 1896. 

I. LIFE. 

I. 

REAL RICHES. 

'T is little I could care for pearls Who own the ample sea;Or brooches, when the Emperor With rubies pelteth me;

Or gold, who am the Prince of Mines; Or diamonds, when I seeA diadem to fit a dome Continual crowning me. 

II. 

SUPERIORITY TO FATE. 

Superiority to fate Is difficult to learn. 'T is not conferred by any, But possible to earn

A pittance at a time, Until, to her surprise, The soul with strict economy Subsists till Paradise. 

III. 

HOPE. 

Hope is a subtle glutton; He feeds upon the fair;And yet, inspected closely, What abstinence is there!

His is the halcyon table That never seats but one, And whatsoever is consumed The same amounts remain. 

IV. 

FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 

I. 

Forbidden fruit a flavor has That lawful orchards mocks;How luscious lies the pea within The pod that Duty locks!

V. 

FORBIDDEN FRUIT. 

II. 

Heaven is what I cannot reach! The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang, That 'heaven' is, to me. 

The color on the cruising cloud, The interdicted groundBehind the hill, the house behind, -- There Paradise is found!

VI. 

A WORD. 

A word is deadWhen it is said, Some say. I say it justBegins to live That day. 

VII. 

To venerate the simple days Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember That from you or meThey may take the trifle Termed mortality!

To invest existence with a stately air, Needs but to remember That the acorn thereIs the egg of forests For the upper air!

VIII. 

LIFE'S TRADES. 

It's such a little thing to weep, So short a thing to sigh;And yet by trades the size of these We men and women die!

IX. 

Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise. Three times, 't is said, a sinking man Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever To that abhorred abodeWhere hope and he part company, -- For he is grasped of God. The Maker's cordial visage, However good to see, Is shunned, we must admit it, Like an adversity. 

X. 

How still the bells in steeples stand, Till, swollen with the sky, They leap upon their silver feet In frantic melody!

XI. 

If the foolish call them 'flowers, ' Need the wiser tell?If the savans 'classify' them, It is just as well!

Those who read the Revelations Must not criticiseThose who read the same edition With beclouded eyes!

Could we stand with that old Moses Canaan denied, --Scan, like him, the stately landscape On the other side, --

Doubtless we should deem superfluous Many sciencesNot pursued by learnčd angels In scholastic skies!

Low amid that glad _Belles lettres_ Grant that we may stand, Stars, amid profound Galaxies, At that grand 'Right hand'!

XII. 

A SYLLABLE. 

Could mortal lip divine The undeveloped freightOf a delivered syllable, 'T would crumble with the weight. 

XIII. 

PARTING. 

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to seeIf Immortality unveil A third event to me, So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell. 

XIV. 

ASPIRATION. 

We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. 

The heroism we recite Would be a daily thing, Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king. 

XV. 

THE INEVITABLE. 

While I was fearing it, it came, But came with less of fear, Because that fearing it so long Had almost made it dear. There is a fitting a dismay, A fitting a despair. 'Tis harder knowing it is due, Than knowing it is here. The trying on the utmost, The morning it is new, Is terribler than wearing it A whole existence through. 

XVI. 

A BOOK. 

There is no frigate like a book To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page Of prancing poetry. This traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of toll;How frugal is the chariot That bears a human soul!

XVII. 

Who has not found the heaven below Will fail of it above. God's residence is next to mine, His furniture is love. 

XVIII. 

A PORTRAIT. 

A face devoid of love or grace, A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stone Would feel as thoroughly at easeAs were they old acquaintances, -- First time together thrown. 

XIX. 

I HAD A GUINEA GOLDEN. 

I had a guinea golden; I lost it in the sand, And though the sum was simple, And pounds were in the land, Still had it such a value Unto my frugal eye, That when I could not find it I sat me down to sigh. 

I had a crimson robin Who sang full many a day, But when the woods were painted He, too, did fly away. Time brought me other robins, -- Their ballads were the same, --Still for my missing troubadour I kept the 'house at hame. '

I had a star in heaven; One Pleiad was its name, And when I was not heeding It wandered from the same. And though the skies are crowded, And all the night ashine, I do not care about it, Since none of them are mine. 

My story has a moral: I have a missing friend, --Pleiad its name, and robin, And guinea in the sand, --And when this mournful ditty, Accompanied with tear, Shall meet the eye of traitor In country far from here, Grant that repentance solemn May seize upon his mind, And he no consolation Beneath the sun may find. 

NOTE. -- This poem may have had, like many others, apersonal origin. It is more than probable that it wassent to some friend travelling in Europe, a daintyreminder of letter-writing delinquencies. 

XX. 

SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 

From all the jails the boys and girls Ecstatically leap, --Beloved, only afternoon That prison doesn't keep. 

They storm the earth and stun the air, A mob of solid bliss. Alas! that frowns could lie in wait For such a foe as this!

XXI. 

Few get enough, -- enough is one; To that ethereal throngHave not each one of us the right To stealthily belong?

XXII. 

Upon the gallows hung a wretch, Too sullied for the hellTo which the law entitled him. As nature's curtain fellThe one who bore him tottered in, For this was woman's son. ''T was all I had, ' she stricken gasped; Oh, what a livid boon!

XXIII. 

THE LOST THOUGHT. 

I felt a clearing in my mind As if my brain had split;I tried to match it, seam by seam, But could not make them fit. 

The thought behind I strove to join Unto the thought before, But sequence ravelled out of reach Like balls upon a floor. 

XXIV. 

RETICENCE. 

The reticent volcano keeps His never slumbering plan;Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man. 

If nature will not tell the tale Jehovah told to her, Can human nature not survive Without a listener?

Admonished by her buckled lips Let every babbler be. The only secret people keep Is Immortality. 

XXV. 

WITH FLOWERS. 

If recollecting were forgetting, Then I remember not;And if forgetting, recollecting, How near I had forgot!And if to miss were merry, And if to mourn were gay, How very blithe the fingers That gathered these to-day!

XXVI. 

The farthest thunder that I heard Was nearer than the sky, And rumbles still, though torrid noons Have lain their missiles by. The lightning that preceded it Struck no one but myself, But I would not exchange the bolt For all the rest of life. Indebtedness to oxygen The chemist may repay, But not the obligation To electricity. It founds the homes and decks the days, And every clamor brightIs but the gleam concomitant Of that waylaying light. The thought is quiet as a flake, -- A crash without a sound;How life's reverberation Its explanation found!

XXVII. 

On the bleakness of my lot Bloom I strove to raise. Late, my acre of a rock Yielded grape and maize. 

Soil of flint if steadfast tilled Will reward the hand;Seed of palm by Lybian sun Fructified in sand. 

XXVIII. 

CONTRAST. 

A door just opened on a street -- I, lost, was passing by --An instant's width of warmth disclosed, And wealth, and company. 

The door as sudden shut, and I, I, lost, was passing by, --Lost doubly, but by contrast most, Enlightening misery. 

XXIX. 

FRIENDS. 

Are friends delight or pain? Could bounty but remainRiches were good. 

But if they only stayBolder to fly away, Riches are sad. 

XXX. 

FIRE. 

Ashes denote that fire was; Respect the grayest pileFor the departed creature's sake That hovered there awhile. 

Fire exists the first in light, And then consolidates, --Only the chemist can disclose Into what carbonates. 

XXXI. 

A MAN. 

Fate slew him, but he did not drop; She felled -- he did not fall --Impaled him on her fiercest stakes -- He neutralized them all. 

She stung him, sapped his firm advance, But, when her worst was done, And he, unmoved, regarded her, Acknowledged him a man. 

XXXII. 

VENTURES. 

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture. For the one ship that struts the shoreMany's the gallant, overwhelmed creature Nodding in navies nevermore. 

XXXIII. 

GRIEFS. 

I measure every grief I meet With analytic eyes;I wonder if it weighs like mine, Or has an easier size. 

I wonder if they bore it long, Or did it just begin?I could not tell the date of mine, It feels so old a pain. 

I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die. 

I wonder if when years have piled -- Some thousands -- on the causeOf early hurt, if such a lapse Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still Through centuries above, Enlightened to a larger pain By contrast with the love. 

The grieved are many, I am told; The reason deeper lies, --Death is but one and comes but once, And only nails the eyes. 

There's grief of want, and grief of cold, -- A sort they call 'despair;'There's banishment from native eyes, In sight of native air. 

And though I may not guess the kind Correctly, yet to meA piercing comfort it affords In passing Calvary, To note the fashions of the cross, Of those that stand alone, Still fascinated to presume That some are like my own. 

XXXIV. 

I have a king who does not speak;So, wondering, thro' the hours meek I trudge the day away, --Half glad when it is night and sleep, If, haply, thro' a dream to peep In parlors shut by day. 

And if I do, when morning comes, It is as if a hundred drums Did round my pillow roll, And shouts fill all my childish sky, And bells keep saying 'victory' From steeples in my soul!

And if I don't, the little BirdWithin the Orchard is not heard, And I omit to pray, 'Father, thy will be done' to-day, For my will goes the other way, And it were perjury!

XXXV. 

DISENCHANTMENT. 

It dropped so low in my regard I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones At bottom of my mind;

Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less Than I reviled myselfFor entertaining plated wares Upon my silver shelf. 

XXXVI. 

LOST FAITH. 

To lose one's faith surpasses 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. 

XXXVII. 

LOST JOY. 

I had a daily bliss I half indifferent viewed, Till sudden I perceived it stir, -- It grew as I pursued, Till when, around a crag, It wasted from my sight, Enlarged beyond my utmost scope, I learned its sweetness right. 

XXXVIII. 

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat Was haughty and betrayed. What right had fields to arbitrate In matters ratified?

I tasted wheat, -- and hated chaff, And thanked the ample friend;Wisdom is more becoming viewed At distance than at hand. 

XXXIX. 

Life, and Death, and Giants Such as these, are still. Minor apparatus, hopper of the mill, Beetle at the candle, Or a fife's small fame, Maintain by accident That they proclaim. 

XL. 

ALPINE GLOW. 

Our lives are Swiss, -- So still, so cool, Till, some odd afternoon, The Alps neglect their curtains, And we look farther on. 

Italy stands the other side, While, like a guard between, The solemn Alps, The siren Alps, Forever intervene!

XLI. 

REMEMBRANCE. 

Remembrance has a rear and front, -- 'T is something like a house;It has a garret also For refuse and the mouse, Besides, the deepest cellar That ever mason hewed;Look to it, by its fathoms Ourselves be not pursued. 

XLII. 

To hang our head ostensibly, And subsequent to findThat such was not the posture Of our immortal mind, Affords the sly presumption That, in so dense a fuzz, You, too, take cobweb attitudes Upon a plane of gauze!

XLIII. 

THE BRAIN. 

The brain is wider than the sky, For, put them side by side, The one the other will include With ease, and you beside. 

The brain is deeper than the sea, For, hold them, blue to blue, The one the other will absorb, As sponges, buckets do. 

The brain is just the weight of God, For, lift them, pound for pound, And they will differ, if they do, As syllable from sound. 

XLIV. 

The bone that has no marrow; What ultimate for that?It is not fit for table, For beggar, or for cat. 

A bone has obligations, A being has the same;A marrowless assembly Is culpabler than shame. 

But how shall finished creatures A function fresh obtain? --Old Nicodemus' phantom Confronting us again!

XLV. 

THE PAST. 

The past is such a curious creature, To look her in the faceA transport may reward us, Or a disgrace. 

Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him, fly!Her rusty ammunition Might yet reply!

XLVI. 

To help our bleaker parts Salubrious hours are given, Which if they do not fit for earth Drill silently for heaven. 

XLVII. 

What soft, cherubic creatures These gentlewomen are!One would as soon assault a plush Or violate a star. 

Such dimity convictions, A horror so refinedOf freckled human nature, Of Deity ashamed, --

It's such a common glory, A fisherman's degree!Redemption, brittle lady, Be so, ashamed of thee. 

XLVIII. 

DESIRE. 

Who never wanted, -- maddest joy Remains to him unknown:The banquet of abstemiousness Surpasses that of wine. 

Within its hope, though yet ungrasped Desire's perfect goal, No nearer, lest reality Should disenthrall thy soul. 

XLIX. 

PHILOSOPHY. 

It might be easier To fail with land in sight, Than gain my blue peninsula To perish of delight. 

L. 

POWER. 

You cannot put a fire out; A thing that can igniteCan go, itself, without a fan Upon the slowest night. 

You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer, --Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor. 

LI. 

A modest lot, a fame petite, A brief campaign of sting and sweet Is plenty! Is enough!A sailor's business is the shore, A soldier's -- balls. Who asketh moreMust seek the neighboring life!

LII. 

Is bliss, then, such abyssI must not put my foot amissFor fear I spoil my shoe?

I'd rather suit my footThan save my boot, For yet to buy another pairIs possibleAt any fair. 

But bliss is sold just once;The patent lostNone buy it any more. 

LIII. 

EXPERIENCE. 

I stepped from plank to plank So slow and cautiously;The stars about my head I felt, About my feet the sea. 

I knew not but the next Would be my final inch, --This gave me that precarious gait Some call experience. 

LIV. 

THANKSGIVING DAY. 

One day is there of the series Termed Thanksgiving day, Celebrated part at table, Part in memory. 

Neither patriarch nor pussy, I dissect the play;Seems it, to my hooded thinking, Reflex holiday. 

Had there been no sharp subtraction From the early sum, Not an acre or a caption Where was once a room, Not a mention, whose small pebble Wrinkled any bay, --Unto such, were such assembly, 'T were Thanksgiving day. 

LV. 

CHILDISH GRIEFS. 

Softened by Time's consummate plush, How sleek the woe appearsThat threatened childhood's citadel And undermined the years!

Bisected now by bleaker griefs, We envy the despairThat devastated childhood's realm, So easy to repair. 

II. LOVE. 

I. 

CONSECRATION. 

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it, Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it, Not to partake thy passion, my humility. 

II. 

LOVE'S HUMILITY. 

My worthiness is all my doubt, His merit all my fear, Contrasting which, my qualities Do lowlier appear;

Lest I should insufficient prove For his beloved need, The chiefest apprehension Within my loving creed. 

So I, the undivine abode Of his elect content, Conform my soul as 't were a church Unto her sacrament. 

III. 

LOVE. 

Love is anterior to life, Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and The exponent of breath. 

IV. 

SATISFIED. 

One blessing had I, than the rest So larger to my eyesThat I stopped gauging, satisfied, For this enchanted size. 

It was the limit of my dream, The focus of my prayer, --A perfect, paralyzing bliss Contented as despair. 

I knew no more of want or cold, Phantasms both become, For this new value in the soul, Supremest earthly sum. 

The heaven below the heaven above Obscured with ruddier hue. Life's latitude leant over-full; The judgment perished, too. 

Why joys so scantily disburse, Why Paradise defer, Why floods are served to us in bowls, -- I speculate no more. 

V. 

WITH A FLOWER. 

When roses cease to bloom, dear, And violets are done, When bumble-bees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the sun, The hand that paused to gather Upon this summer's dayWill idle lie, in Auburn, -- Then take my flower, pray!

VI. 

SONG. 

Summer for thee grant I may be When summer days are flown!Thy music still when whippoorwill And oriole are done!

For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb And sow my blossoms o'er!Pray gather me, Anemone, Thy flower forevermore!

VII. 

LOYALTY. 

Split the lark and you'll find the music, Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled, Scantily dealt to the summer morning, Saved for your ear when lutes be old. 

Loose the flood, you shall find it patent, Gush after gush, reserved for you;Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas, Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?

VIII. 

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. 'T is true the drought is destitute, But then I had the dew!

The Caspian has its realms of sand, Its other realm of sea;Without the sterile perquisite No Caspian could be. 

IX. 

 Poor little heart! Did they forget thee?Then dinna care! Then dinna care!

 Proud little heart! Did they forsake thee?Be debonair! Be debonair!

 Frail little heart! I would not break thee:Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?

 Gay little heart! Like morning gloryThou'll wilted be; thou'll wilted be!

X. 

FORGOTTEN. 

There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man. It hurls its barbed syllables, -- At once is mute again. But where it fellThe saved will tell On patriotic day, Some epauletted brother Gave his breath away. 

Wherever runs the breathless sun, Wherever roams the day, There is its noiseless onset, There is its victory!

Behold the keenest marksman! The most accomplished shot!Time's sublimest target Is a soul 'forgot'!

XI. 

I've got an arrow here; Loving the hand that sent it, I the dart revere. 

Fell, they will say, in 'skirmish'! Vanquished, my soul will know, By but a simple arrow Sped by an archer's bow. 

XII. 

THE MASTER. 

He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keysBefore they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees, Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow, By fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten, Your brain to bubble cool, --Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul. 

XIII. 

Heart, we will forget him! You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light. 

When you have done, pray tell me, That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you're lagging, I may remember him!

XIV. 

Father, I bring thee not myself, -- That were the little load;I bring thee the imperial heart I had not strength to hold. 

The heart I cherished in my own Till mine too heavy grew, Yet strangest, heavier since it went, Is it too large for you?

XV. 

We outgrow love like other things And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore. 

XVI. 

Not with a club the heart is broken, Nor with a stone;A whip, so small you could not see it. I've known

To lash the magic creature Till it fell, Yet that whip's name too noble Then to tell. 

Magnanimous of bird By boy descried, To sing unto the stone Of which it died. 

XVII. 

WHO?

My friend must be a bird, Because it flies!Mortal my friend must be, Because it dies!Barbs has it, like a bee. Ah, curious friend, Thou puzzlest me!

XVIII. 

He touched me, so I live to knowThat 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 awayFor visitor, or sundown; Death's single privacy, The only one forestalling mine, And that by right that hePresents a claim invisible, No wedlock granted me. 

I live with him, I hear his voice, I stand alive to-dayTo 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 wheelsOf chariots that him convey, I envy speechless hills

That gaze upon his journey; How easy all can seeWhat 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 ringTo 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 hillHer 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 yearAt any other period. When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad On solitary hillsThat science cannot overtake, But human nature feels. 

It waits upon the lawn; It shows the furthest treeUpon 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 knewThat you were coming, -- I declare, How red their faces grew!But, March, forgive me --And all those hillsYou 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 callWhen I am occupied. But trifles look so trivialAs soon as you have come, That blame is just as dear as praiseAnd 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 dieWith 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 espyWhose 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 dinner light for flowers, Dukes for setting sun!

X. 

To my quick ear the leaves conferred; The bushes they were bells;I could not find a privacy From Nature's sentinels. 

In cave if I presumed to hide, The walls began to tell;Creation seemed a mighty crack To make me visible. 

XI. 

A ROSE. 

A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer's morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breezeA caper in the trees, -- And I'm a rose!

XII. 

High from the earth I heard a bird; He trod upon the treesAs he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly Upon a pile of windWhich in a perturbation Nature had left behind. A joyous-going fellow I gathered from his talk, Which both of benediction And badinage partook, Without apparent burden, I learned, in leafy woodHe was the faithful father Of a dependent brood;And this untoward transport His remedy for care, --A contrast to our respites. How different we are!

XIII. 

COBWEBS. 

The spider as an artist Has never been employedThough his surpassing merit Is freely certified

By every broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian land. Neglected son of genius, I take thee by the hand. 

XIV. 

A WELL. 

What mystery pervades a well! The water lives so far, Like neighbor from another world Residing in a jar. 

The grass does not appear afraid; I often wonder heCan stand so close and look so bold At what is dread to me. 

Related somehow they may be, -- The sedge stands next the sea, Where he is floorless, yet of fear No evidence gives he. 

But nature is a stranger yet; The ones that cite her mostHave never passed her haunted house, Nor simplified her ghost. 

To pity those that know her not Is helped by the regretThat those who know her, know her less The nearer her they get. 

XV. 

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, --One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will doIf bees are few. 

XVI. 

THE WIND. 

It's like the light, -- A fashionless delightIt's like the bee, -- A dateless melody. 

It's like the woods, Private like breeze, Phraseless, yet it stirs The proudest trees. 

It's like the morning, -- Best when it's done, --The everlasting clocks Chime noon. 

XVII. 

A dew sufficed itself And satisfied a leaf, And felt, 'how vast a destiny! How trivial is life!'

The sun went out to work, The day went out to play, But not again that dew was seen By physiognomy. 

Whether by day abducted, Or emptied by the sunInto the sea, in passing, Eternally unknown. 

XVIII. 

THE WOODPECKER. 

His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill. He laboreth at every tree, -- A worm his utmost goal. 

XIX. 

A SNAKE. 

Sweet is the swamp with its secrets, Until we meet a snake;'T is then we sigh for houses, And our departure takeAt that enthralling gallop That only childhood knows. A snake is summer's treason, And guile is where it goes. 

XX. 

Could I but ride indefinite, As doth the meadow-bee, And visit only where I liked, And no man visit me, And flirt all day with buttercups, And marry whom I may, And dwell a little everywhere, Or better, run away

With no police to follow, Or chase me if I do, Till I should jump peninsulas To get away from you, --

I said, but just to be a bee Upon a raft of air, And row in nowhere all day long, And anchor off the bar, --What liberty! So captives deem Who tight in dungeons are. 

XXI. 

THE MOON. 

The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below. 

Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone;Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known. 

Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smileUpon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be But the remotest star!For certainly her way might pass Beside your twinkling door. 

Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue. 

XXII. 

THE BAT. 

The bat is dun with wrinkled wings Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips, Or none perceptible. 

His small umbrella, quaintly halved, Describing in the airAn arc alike inscrutable, -- Elate philosopher!

Deputed from what firmament Of what astute abode, Empowered with what malevolence Auspiciously withheld. 

To his adroit Creator Ascribe no less the praise;Beneficent, believe me, His eccentricities. 

XXIII. 

THE BALLOON. 

You've seen balloons set, haven't you? So stately they ascendIt is as swans discarded you For duties diamond. 

Their liquid feet go softly out Upon a sea of blond;They spurn the air as 't were too mean For creatures so renowned. 

Their ribbons just beyond the eye, They struggle some for breath, And yet the crowd applauds below; They would not encore death. 

The gilded creature strains and spins, Trips frantic in a tree, Tears open her imperial veins And tumbles in the sea. 

The crowd retire with an oath The dust in streets goes down, And clerks in counting-rooms observe, ''T was only a balloon. '

XXIV. 

EVENING. 

The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one, Their seam the day upon. 

The low grass loaded with the dew, The twilight stood as strangers doWith hat in hand, polite and new, To stay as if, or go. 

A vastness, as a neighbor, came, --A wisdom without face or name, A peace, as hemispheres at home, -- And so the night became. 

XXV. 

COCOON. 

Drab habitation of whom?Tabernacle or tomb, Or dome of worm, Or porch of gnome, Or some elf's catacomb?

XXVI. 

SUNSET. 

A sloop of amber slips away Upon an ether sea, And wrecks in peace a purple tar, The son of ecstasy. 

XXVII. 

AURORA. 

Of bronze and blaze The north, to-night! So adequate its forms, So preconcerted with itself, So distant to alarms, --An unconcern so sovereign To universe, or me, It paints my simple spirit With tints of majesty, Till I take vaster attitudes, And strut upon my stem, Disdaining men and oxygen, For arrogance of them. 

My splendors are menagerie; But their competeless showWill entertain the centuries When I am, long ago, An island in dishonored grass, Whom none but daisies know. 

XXVIII. 

THE COMING OF NIGHT. 

How the old mountains drip with sunset, And the brake of dun!How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel By the wizard sun!

How the old steeples hand the scarlet, Till the ball is full, --Have I the lip of the flamingo That I dare to tell?

Then, how the fire ebbs like billows, Touching all the grassWith a departing, sapphire feature, As if a duchess pass!

How a small dusk crawls on the village Till the houses blot;And the odd flambeaux no men carry Glimmer on the spot!

Now it is night in nest and kennel, And where was the wood, Just a dome of abyss is nodding Into solitude! --

These are the visions baffled Guido; Titian never told;Domenichino dropped the pencil, Powerless to unfold. 

XXIX. 

AFTERMATH. 

The murmuring of bees has ceased; But murmuring of somePosterior, prophetic, Has simultaneous come, --

The lower metres of the year, When nature's laugh is done, --The Revelations of the book Whose Genesis is June. 

IV. TIME AND ETERNITY. 

I. 

This world is not conclusion; A sequel stands beyond, Invisible, as music, But positive, as sound. It beckons and it baffles; Philosophies don't know, And through a riddle, at the last, Sagacity must go. To guess it puzzles scholars; To gain it, men have shownContempt of generations, And crucifixion known. 

II. 

We learn in the retreating How vast an oneWas recently among us. A perished sun

Endears in the departure How doubly moreThan all the golden presence It was before!

III. 

They say that 'time assuages, ' -- Time never did assuage;An actual suffering strengthens, As sinews do, with age. 

Time is a test of trouble, But not a remedy. If such it prove, it prove too There was no malady. 

IV. 

We cover thee, sweet face. Not that we tire of thee, But that thyself fatigue of us; Remember, as thou flee, We follow thee until Thou notice us no more, And then, reluctant, turn away To con thee o'er and o'er, And blame the scanty love We were content to show, Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold If thou would'st take it now. 

V. 

ENDING. 

That is solemn we have ended, -- Be it but a play, Or a glee among the garrets, Or a holiday, Or a leaving home; or later, Parting with a worldWe have understood, for better Still it be unfurled. 

VI. 

The stimulus, beyond the grave His countenance to see, Supports me like imperial drams Afforded royally. 

VII. 

Given in marriage unto thee, Oh, thou celestial host!Bride of the Father and the Son, Bride of the Holy Ghost!

Other betrothal shall dissolve, Wedlock of will decay;Only the keeper of this seal Conquers mortality. 

VIII. 

That such have died enables us The tranquiller to die;That such have lived, certificate For immortality. 

IX. 

They won't frown always, -- some sweet day When I forget to tease, They'll recollect how cold I looked, And how I just said 'please. '

Then they will hasten to the door To call the little child, Who cannot thank them, for the ice That on her lisping piled. 

X. 

IMMORTALITY. 

It is an honorable thought, And makes one lift one's hat, As one encountered gentlefolk Upon a daily street, That we've immortal place, Though pyramids decay, And kingdoms, like the orchard, Flit russetly away. 

XI. 

The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear;Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year. 

And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect. 

XII. 

How dare the robins sing, When men and women hearWho since they went to their account Have settled with the year! --Paid all that life had earned In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do Is immaterial. Insulting is the sun To him whose mortal light, Beguiled of immortality, Bequeaths him to the night. In deference to him Extinct be every hum, Whose garden wrestles with the dew, At daybreak overcome!

XIII. 

DEATH. 

Death is like the insect Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it, But decoyed may be. 

Bait it with the balsam, Seek it with the knife, Baffle, if it cost you Everything in life. 

Then, if it have burrowed Out of reach of skill, Ring the tree and leave it, -- 'T is the vermin's will. 

XIV. 

UNWARNED. 

'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou No station in the day?'T was not thy wont to hinder so, -- Retrieve thine industry. 

'T is noon, my little maid, alas! And art thou sleeping yet?The lily waiting to be wed, The bee, dost thou forget?

My little maid, 't is night; alas, That night should be to theeInstead of morning! Hadst thou broached Thy little plan to me, Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet, I might have aided thee. 

XV. 

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides. 

XVI. 

Not any higher stands the grave For heroes than for men;Not any nearer for the child Than numb three-score and ten. 

This latest leisure equal lulls The beggar and his queen;Propitiate this democrat By summer's gracious mien. 

XVII. 

ASLEEP. 

As far from pity as complaint, As cool to speech as stone, As numb to revelation As if my trade were bone. 

As far from time as history, As near yourself to-dayAs children to the rainbow's scarf, Or sunset's yellow play

To eyelids in the sepulchre. How still the dancer lies, While color's revelations break, And blaze the butterflies!

XVIII. 

THE SPIRIT. 

'T is whiter than an Indian pipe, 'T is dimmer than a lace;No stature has it, like a fog, When you approach the place. 

Not any voice denotes it here, Or intimates it there;A spirit, how doth it accost? What customs hath the air?

This limitless hyperbole Each one of us shall be;'T is drama, if (hypothesis) It be not tragedy!

XIX. 

THE MONUMENT. 

She laid her docile crescent down, And this mechanic stoneStill states, to dates that have forgot, The news that she is gone. 

So constant to its stolid trust, The shaft that never knew, It shames the constancy that fled Before its emblem flew. 

XX. 

Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast;Grant, God, he charge the bravest Of all the martial blest. 

Please God, might I behold him In epauletted white, I should not fear the foe then, I should not fear the fight. 

XXI. 

Immortal is an ample word When what we need is by, But when it leaves us for a time, 'T is a necessity. 

Of heaven above the firmest proof We fundamental know, Except for its marauding hand, It had been heaven below. 

XXII. 

Where every bird is bold to go, And bees abashless play, The foreigner before he knocks Must thrust the tears away. 

XXIII. 

The grave my little cottage is, Where, keeping house for thee, I make my parlor orderly, And lay the marble tea, For two divided, briefly, A cycle, it may be, Till everlasting life unite In strong society. 

XXIV. 

This was in the white of the year, That was in the green, Drifts were as difficult then to think As daisies now to be seen. 

Looking back is best that is left, Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect's half, Sometimes almost more. 

XXV. 

Sweet hours have perished here; This is a mighty room;Within its precincts hopes have played, -- Now shadows in the tomb. 

XXVI. 

Me! Come! My dazzled faceIn such a shining place!

Me! Hear! My foreign earThe sounds of welcome near!

The saints shall meetOur bashful feet. 

My holiday shall beThat they remember me;

My paradise, the fameThat they pronounce my name. 

XXVII. 

INVISIBLE. 

From us she wandered now a year, Her tarrying unknown;If wilderness prevent her feet, Or that ethereal zone

No eye hath seen and lived, We ignorant must be. We only know what time of year We took the mystery. 

XXVIII. 

I wish I knew that woman's name, So, when she comes this way, To hold my life, and hold my ears, For fear I hear her say

She's 'sorry I am dead, ' again, Just when the grave and IHave sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, -- Our only lullaby. 

XXIX. 

TRYING TO FORGET. 

Bereaved of all, I went abroad, No less bereaved to beUpon a new peninsula, -- The grave preceded me, Obtained my lodgings ere myself, And when I sought my bed, The grave it was, reposed upon The pillow for my head. 

I waked, to find it first awake, I rose, -- it followed me;I tried to drop it in the crowd, To lose it in the sea, In cups of artificial drowse To sleep its shape away, --The grave was finished, but the spade Remained in memory. 

XXX. 

I felt a funeral in my brain, And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed That sense was breaking through. 

And when they all were seated, A service like a drumKept beating, beating, till I thought My mind was going numb. 

And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soulWith those same boots of lead, again. Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell, And Being but an ear, And I and silence some strange race, Wrecked, solitary, here. 

XXXI. 

I meant to find her when I came; Death had the same design;But the success was his, it seems, And the discomfit mine. 

I meant to tell her how I longed For just this single time;But Death had told her so the first, And she had hearkened him. 

To wander now is my abode; To rest, -- to rest would beA privilege of hurricane To memory and me. 

XXXII. 

WAITING. 

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang To keep the dark away. 

XXXIII. 

A sickness of this world it most occasions When best men die;A wishfulness their far condition To occupy. 

A chief indifference, as foreign A world must beThemselves forsake contented, For Deity. 

XXXIV. 

Superfluous were the sun When excellence is dead;He were superfluous every day, For every day is said

That syllable whose faith Just saves it from despair, And whose 'I'll meet you' hesitates If love inquire, 'Where?'

Upon his dateless fame Our periods may lie, As stars that drop anonymous From an abundant sky. 

XXXV. 

So proud she was to die It made us all ashamedThat what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. 

So satisfied to go Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped Almost to jealousy. 

XXXVI. 

FAREWELL. 

Tie the strings to my life, my Lord, Then I am ready to go!Just a look at the horses -- Rapid! That will do!

Put me in on the firmest side, So I shall never fall;For we must ride to the Judgment, And it's partly down hill. 

But never I mind the bridges, And never I mind the sea;Held fast in everlasting race By my own choice and thee. 

Good-by to the life I used to live, And the world I used to know;And kiss the hills for me, just once; Now I am ready to go!

XXXVII. 

The dying need but little, dear, -- A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face To punctuate the wall, A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret, And certainly that oneNo color in the rainbow Perceives when you are gone. 

XXXVIII. 

DEAD. 

There's something quieter than sleep Within this inner room!It wears a sprig upon its breast, And will not tell its name. 

Some touch it and some kiss it, Some chafe its idle hand;It has a simple gravity I do not understand!

While simple-hearted neighbors Chat of the 'early dead, 'We, prone to periphrasis, Remark that birds have fled!

XXXIX. 

The soul should always stand ajar, That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait, Or shy of troubling her. 

Depart, before the host has slid The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, -- Her visitor no more. 

XL. 

Three weeks passed since I had seen her, -- Some disease had vexed;'T was with text and village singing I beheld her next, And a company -- our pleasure To discourse alone;Gracious now to me as any, Gracious unto none. 

Borne, without dissent of either, To the parish night;Of the separated people Which are out of sight?

XLI. 

I breathed enough to learn the trick, And now, removed from air, I simulate the breath so well, That one, to be quite sure

The lungs are stirless, must descend Among the cunning cells, And touch the pantomime himself. How cool the bellows feels!

XLII. 

I wonder if the sepulchre Is not a lonesome way, When men and boys, and larks and June Go down the fields to hay!

XLIII. 

JOY IN DEATH. 

If tolling bell I ask the cause. 'A soul has gone to God, 'I'm answered in a lonesome tone; Is heaven then so sad?

That bells should joyful ring to tell A soul had gone to heaven, Would seem to me the proper way A good news should be given. 

XLIV. 

If I may have it when it's dead I will contented be;If just as soon as breath is out It shall belong to me, Until they lock it in the grave, 'T is bliss I cannot weigh, For though they lock thee in the grave, Myself can hold the key. 

Think of it, lover! I and thee Permitted face to face to be;After a life, a death we'll say, -- For death was that, and this is thee. 

XLV. 

Before the ice is in the pools, Before the skaters go, Or any cheek at nightfall Is tarnished by the snow, Before the fields have finished, Before the Christmas tree, Wonder upon wonder Will arrive to me!

What we touch the hems of On a summer's day;What is only walking Just a bridge away;

That which sings so, speaks so, When there's no one here, --Will the frock I wept in Answer me to wear?

XLVI. 

DYING. 

I heard a fly buzz when I died; The stillness round my formWas like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm. 

The eyes beside had wrung them dry, And breaths were gathering sureFor that last onset, when the king Be witnessed in his power. 

I willed my keepsakes, signed away What portion of me ICould make assignable, -- and then There interposed a fly, With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me;And then the windows failed, and then I could not see to see. 

XLVII. 

Adrift! A little boat adrift! And night is coming down!Will no one guide a little boat Unto the nearest town?

So sailors say, on yesterday, Just as the dusk was brown, One little boat gave up its strife, And gurgled down and down. 

But angels say, on yesterday, Just as the dawn was red, One little boat o'erspent with galesRetrimmed its masts, redecked its sails Exultant, onward sped!

XLVIII. 

There's been a death in the opposite house As lately as to-day. I know it by the numb look Such houses have alway. 

The neighbors rustle in and out, The doctor drives away. A window opens like a pod, Abrupt, mechanically;

Somebody flings a mattress out, -- The children hurry by;They wonder if It died on that, -- I used to when a boy. 

The minister goes stiffly in As if the house were his, And he owned all the mourners now, And little boys besides;

And then the milliner, and the man Of the appalling trade, To take the measure of the house. There'll be that dark parade

Of tassels and of coaches soon; It's easy as a sign, --The intuition of the news In just a country town. 

XLIX. 

We never know we go, -- when we are going We jest and shut the door;Fate following behind us bolts it, And we accost no more. 

L. 

THE SOUL'S STORM. 

It struck me every day The lightning was as newAs if the cloud that instant slit And let the fire through. 

It burned me in the night, It blistered in my dream;It sickened fresh upon my sight With every morning's beam. 

I thought that storm was brief, -- The maddest, quickest by;But Nature lost the date of this, And left it in the sky. 

LI. 

Water is taught by thirst;Land, by the oceans passed; Transport, by throe;Peace, by its battles told;Love, by memorial mould; Birds, by the snow. 

LII. 

THIRST. 

We thirst at first, -- 't is Nature's act; And later, when we die, A little water supplicate Of fingers going by. 

It intimates the finer want, Whose adequate supplyIs that great water in the west Termed immortality. 

LIII. 

A clock stopped -- not the mantel's; Geneva's farthest skillCan't put the puppet bowing That just now dangled still. 

An awe came on the trinket! The figures hunched with pain, Then quivered out of decimals Into degreeless noon. 

It will not stir for doctors, This pendulum of snow;The shopman importunes it, While cool, concernless No

Nods from the gilded pointers, Nods from the seconds slim, Decades of arrogance between The dial life and him. 

LIV. 

CHARLOTTE BRONTĖ'S GRAVE. 

All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of 'Currer Bell, ' In quiet Haworth laid. 

This bird, observing others, When frosts too sharp became, Retire to other latitudes, Quietly did the same, But differed in returning; Since Yorkshire hills are green, Yet not in all the nests I meet Can nightingale be seen. 

Gathered from many wanderings, Gethsemane can tellThrough what transporting anguish She reached the asphodel!

Soft fall the sounds of Eden Upon her puzzled ear;Oh, what an afternoon for heaven, When 'Brontė' entered there!

LV. 

A toad can die of light!Death is the common right Of toads and men, --Of earl and midgeThe privilege. Why swagger then?The gnat's supremacyIs large as thine. 

LVI. 

Far from love the Heavenly Father Leads the chosen child;Oftener through realm of briar Than the meadow mild, Oftener by the claw of dragon Than the hand of friend, Guides the little one predestined To the native land. 

LVII. 

SLEEPING. 

A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawnBy stretch of limb or stir of lid, -- An independent one. 

Was ever idleness like this? Within a hut of stoneTo bask the centuries away Nor once look up for noon?

LVIII. 

RETROSPECT. 

'T was just this time last year I died. I know I heard the corn, When I was carried by the farms, -- It had the tassels on. 

I thought how yellow it would look When Richard went to mill;And then I wanted to get out, But something held my will. 

I thought just how red apples wedged The stubble's joints between;And carts went stooping round the fields To take the pumpkins in. 

I wondered which would miss me least, And when Thanksgiving came, If father'd multiply the plates To make an even sum. 

And if my stocking hung too high, Would it blur the Christmas glee, That not a Santa Claus could reach The altitude of me?

But this sort grieved myself, and so I thought how it would beWhen just this time, some perfect year, Themselves should come to me. 

LIX. 

ETERNITY. 

On this wondrous sea, Sailing silently, Ho! pilot, ho!Knowest thou the shoreWhere no breakers roar, Where the storm is o'er?

In the silent westMany sails at rest, Their anchors fast;Thither I pilot thee, --Land, ho! Eternity! Ashore at last!