Three Series, Complete

by Emily Dickinson - Section 1 of 24

For You
Wednesday May 30, 2007

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 Emerson
                                    long since called "the Poetry of the Portfolio,"--something produced
                                    absolutely without the thought of publication, and solely by way of
                                    expression of the writer's own mind. Such verse must inevitably
                                    forfeit whatever advantage lies in the discipline of public criticism
                                    and the enforced conformity to accepted ways. On the other hand, it
                                    may often gain something through the habit of freedom and the
                                    unconventional utterance of daring thoughts. In the case of the
                                    present author, there was absolutely no choice in the matter; she
                                    must write thus, or not at all. A recluse by temperament and habit,
                                    literally spending years without setting her foot beyond the
                                    doorstep, and many more years during which her walks were strictly
                                    limited to her father's grounds, she habitually concealed her mind,
                                    like her person, from all but a very few friends; and it was with
                                    great difficulty that she was persuaded to print, during her
                                    lifetime, three or four poems.  Yet she wrote verses in great
                                    abundance; and though brought curiously indifferent to all
                                    conventional rules, had yet a rigorous literary standard of her own,
                                    and often altered a word many times to suit an ear which had its own
                                    tenacious fastidiousness.
                                    
                                    Miss Dickinson was born in Amherst, Mass., Dec. 10, 1830, and died
                                    there May 15, 1886. Her father, Hon. Edward Dickinson, was the
                                    leading lawyer of Amherst, and was treasurer of the well-known
                                    college there situated. It was his custom once a year to hold a large
                                    reception at his house, attended by all the families connected with
                                    the institution and by the leading people of the town. On these
                                    occasions his daughter Emily emerged from her wonted retirement and
                                    did her part as gracious hostess; nor would any one have known from
                                    her 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 if
                                    she had dwelt in a nunnery.  For myself, although I had corresponded
                                    with her for many years, I saw her but twice face to face, and
                                    brought away the impression of something as unique and remote as
                                    Undine or Mignon or Thekla.
                                    
                                    This selection from her poems is published to meet the desire of her
                                    personal friends, and especially of her surviving sister. It is
                                    believed that the thoughtful reader will find in these pages a
                                    quality more suggestive of the poetry of William Blake than of
                                    anything to be elsewhere found,--flashes of wholly original and
                                    profound insight into nature and life; words and phrases exhibiting
                                    an extraordinary vividness of descriptive and imaginative power, yet
                                    often set in a seemingly whimsical or even rugged frame. They are
                                    here published as they were written, with very few and superficial
                                    changes; although it is fair to say that the titles have been
                                    assigned, almost invariably, by the editors. In many cases these
                                    verses will seem to the reader like poetry torn up by the roots, with
                                    rain and dew and earth still clinging to them, giving a freshness and
                                    a fragrance not otherwise to be conveyed.  In other cases, as in the
                                    few poems of shipwreck or of mental conflict, we can only wonder at
                                    the gift of vivid imagination by which this recluse woman can
                                    delineate, by a few touches, the very crises of physical or mental
                                    struggle. And sometimes again we catch glimpses of a lyric strain,
                                    sustained perhaps but for a line or two at a time, and making the
                                    reader regret its sudden cessation. But the main quality of these
                                    poems is that of extraordinary grasp and insight, uttered with an
                                    uneven vigor sometimes exasperating, seemingly wayward, but really
                                    unsought and inevitable.  After all, when a thought takes one's
                                    breath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence. As Ruskin
                                    wrote in his earlier and better days, "No weight nor mass nor beauty
                                    of 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 these
                                    early editions by her friends, better to fit the conventions of the
                                    times. In particular, her dashes, often small enough to appear
                                    as dots, became commas and semi-colons.
                                    
                                    In the second series of poems published, a facsimile of her
                                    handwritten 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 word
                                    Was 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 show
                                    At 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 entirely
                                    clear which initial letters are capitalized.
                                    
                                    However, this transcription may be compared with the edited
                                    version in the main text to get a flavor of the changes made
                                    in 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!

For You
Saturday April 21, 2007

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 be Themselves 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 ashamed That 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 one No 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 form Was like the stillness in the air Between the heaves of storm. The eyes beside had wrung them dry, And breaths were gathering sure For that last onset, when the king Be witnessed in his power. I willed my keepsakes, signed away What portion of me I Could 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 gales Retrimmed 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 new As 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 supply Is that great water in the west Termed immortality. LIII. A clock stopped -- not the mantel's; Geneva's farthest skill Can'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 BRONTE'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 tell Through what transporting anguish She reached the asphodel! Soft fall the sounds of Eden Upon her puzzled ear; Oh, what an afternoon for heaven, When 'Bronte' entered there! LV. A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men, -- Of earl and midge The privilege. Why swagger then? The gnat's supremacy Is 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 dawn By stretch of limb or stir of lid, -- An independent one. Was ever idleness like this? Within a hut of stone To 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 be When 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 shore Where no breakers roar, Where the storm is o'er? In the silent west Many sails at rest, Their anchors fast; Thither I pilot thee, -- Land, ho! Eternity! Ashore at last!

For You
Friday April 20, 2007

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 shown Contempt of generations, And crucifixion known. II. We learn in the retreating How vast an one Was recently among us. A perished sun Endears in the departure How doubly more Than 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 world We 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 hear Who 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 thee Instead 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-day As 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 stone Still 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 face In such a shining place! Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near! The saints shall meet Our bashful feet. My holiday shall be That they remember me; My paradise, the fame That 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 I Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, -- Our only lullaby. XXIX. TRYING TO FORGET. Bereaved of all, I went abroad, No less bereaved to be Upon 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 drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought My mind was going numb. And then I heard them lift a box, And creak across my soul With 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 be A 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.

For You
Thursday April 19, 2007

XVI. THE WIND. It's like the light, -- A fashionless delight It'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 sun Into 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 take At 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 smile Upon 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 air An 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 ascend It 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 do With 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 show Will 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 grass With 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 some Posterior, 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.

For You
Wednesday April 18, 2007

III.
                                    NATURE.
                                    
                                    I.
                                    
                                    NATURE'S CHANGES.
                                    
                                    The springtime's pallid landscape
                                      Will glow like bright bouquet,
                                    Though drifted deep in parian
                                      The village lies to-day.
                                    
                                    The lilacs, bending many a year,
                                      With purple load will hang;
                                    The bees will not forget the tune
                                      Their old forefathers sang.
                                    
                                    The rose will redden in the bog,
                                      The aster on the hill
                                    Her everlasting fashion set,
                                      And covenant gentians frill,
                                    
                                    Till summer folds her miracle
                                      As women do their gown,
                                    Or priests adjust the symbols
                                      When sacrament is done.
                                    
                                    II.
                                    
                                    THE TULIP.
                                    
                                    She slept beneath a tree
                                      Remembered but by me.
                                    I touched her cradle mute;
                                    She recognized the foot,
                                    Put on her carmine suit, --
                                      And see!
                                    
                                    III.
                                    
                                    A light exists in spring
                                      Not present on the year
                                    At any other period.
                                      When March is scarcely here
                                    
                                    A color stands abroad
                                      On solitary hills
                                    That science cannot overtake,
                                      But human nature feels.
                                    
                                    It waits upon the lawn;
                                      It shows the furthest tree
                                    Upon the furthest slope we know;
                                      It almost speaks to me.
                                    
                                    Then, as horizons step,
                                      Or noons report away,
                                    Without the formula of sound,
                                      It passes, and we stay:
                                    
                                    A quality of loss
                                      Affecting our content,
                                    As trade had suddenly encroached
                                      Upon a sacrament.
                                    
                                    IV.
                                    
                                    THE WAKING YEAR.
                                    
                                    A lady red upon the hill
                                      Her annual secret keeps;
                                    A lady white within the field
                                      In placid lily sleeps!
                                    
                                    The tidy breezes with their brooms
                                      Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!
                                    Prithee, my pretty housewives!
                                      Who may expected be?
                                    
                                    The neighbors do not yet suspect!
                                      The woods exchange a smile --
                                    Orchard, and buttercup, and bird --
                                      In such a little while!
                                    
                                    And yet how still the landscape stands,
                                      How nonchalant the wood,
                                    As if the resurrection
                                      Were nothing very odd!
                                    
                                    V.
                                    
                                    TO MARCH.
                                    
                                    Dear March, come in!
                                    How glad I am!
                                    I looked for you before.
                                    Put down your hat --
                                    You must have walked --
                                    How out of breath you are!
                                    Dear March, how are you?
                                    And the rest?
                                    Did you leave Nature well?
                                    Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
                                    I have so much to tell!
                                    
                                    I got your letter, and the birds';
                                    The maples never knew
                                    That you were coming, -- I declare,
                                    How red their faces grew!
                                    But, March, forgive me --
                                    And all those hills
                                    You left for me to hue;
                                    There was no purple suitable,
                                    You took it all with you.
                                    
                                    Who knocks? That April!
                                    Lock the door!
                                    I will not be pursued!
                                    He stayed away a year, to call
                                    When I am occupied.
                                    But trifles look so trivial
                                    As soon as you have come,
                                    That blame is just as dear as praise
                                    And praise as mere as blame.
                                    
                                    VI.
                                    
                                    MARCH.
                                    
                                    We like March, his shoes are purple,
                                      He is new and high;
                                    Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
                                      Makes he forest dry;
                                    Knows the adder's tongue his coming,
                                      And begets her spot.
                                    Stands the sun so close and mighty
                                      That our minds are hot.
                                    News is he of all the others;
                                      Bold it were to die
                                    With the blue-birds buccaneering
                                      On his British sky.
                                    
                                    VII.
                                    
                                    DAWN.
                                    
                                    Not knowing when the dawn will come
                                      I open every door;
                                    Or has it feathers like a bird,
                                      Or billows like a shore?
                                    
                                    VIII.
                                    
                                    A murmur in the trees to note,
                                      Not loud enough for wind;
                                    A star not far enough to seek,
                                      Nor near enough to find;
                                    
                                    A long, long yellow on the lawn,
                                      A hubbub as of feet;
                                    Not audible, as ours to us,
                                      But dapperer, more sweet;
                                    
                                    A hurrying home of little men
                                      To houses unperceived, --
                                    All this, and more, if I should tell,
                                      Would never be believed.
                                    
                                    Of robins in the trundle bed
                                      How many I espy
                                    Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,
                                      Although I heard them try!
                                    
                                    But then I promised ne'er to tell;
                                      How could I break my word?
                                    So go your way and I'll go mine, --
                                      No fear you'll miss the road.
                                    
                                    IX.
                                    
                                    Morning is the place for dew,
                                      Corn is made at noon,
                                    After 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 breeze
                                    A caper in the trees, --
                                      And I'm a rose!
                                    
                                    XII.
                                    
                                    High from the earth I heard a bird;
                                      He trod upon the trees
                                    As he esteemed them trifles,
                                      And then he spied a breeze,
                                    And situated softly
                                      Upon a pile of wind
                                    Which 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 wood
                                    He 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 employed
                                    Though 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 he
                                    Can 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 most
                                    Have never passed her haunted house,
                                      Nor simplified her ghost.
                                    
                                    To pity those that know her not
                                      Is helped by the regret
                                    That 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 do
                                    If bees are few.