Chapter 2

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 woods Receive 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 Cashmere I confidently see! Or else a peacock's purple train, Feather by feather, on the plain Fritters itself away!

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

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

Without commander, countless, still, The regiment of wood and hill In 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 tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything;

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

And even when it dies, to pass In 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 vehicle Bears 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 night A something so transporting bright, I clap my hands to see;

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

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

Still rears the East her amber flag, Guides still the sun along the crag His caravan of red,

Like flowers that heard the tale of dews, But never deemed the dripping prize Awaited their low brows;

Or bees, that thought the summer's name Some rumor of delirium No summer could for them;

Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred By tropic hint, -- some travelled bird Imported 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 worshipping A 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 traffic Strews 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 democrat The humming-birds aspire.

And whatsoever insect pass, A honey bears away Proportioned to his several dearth And her capacity.

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

She doth not wait for June; Before the world is green Her sturdy little countenance Against 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 spice For pang of jealousy.

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

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

XV.

THE BEE.

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

Withstands until the sweet assault Their chivalry consumes, While he, victorious, tilts away To vanquish other blooms.

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

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

XVI.

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That 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 cribs Will peep, and prance again.

XVIII.

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

Angels when the sun is hottest May 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 turned And 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 jargoning For passing Calvary.

Auto-da-fe and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.

XXI.

THE MOUNTAIN.

The mountain sat upon the plain In 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 stile Which little yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side, A dominie in gray Put 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 me Like that old measure in the boughs, That phraseless melody

The wind does, working like a hand Whose fingers brush the sky, Then quiver down, with tufts of tune Permitted 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 chant Rise solemn in the tree,

As if some caravan of sound On deserts, in the sky, Had broken rank, Then knit, and passed In seamless company.

XXV.

DEATH AND LIFE.

Apparently with no surprise To any happy flower, The frost beheads it at its play In accidental power. The blond assassin passes on, The sun proceeds unmoved To measure off another day For an approving God.

XXVI.

'T was later when the summer went Than when the cricket came, And yet we knew that gentle clock Meant nought but going home.

'T was sooner when the cricket went Than when the winter came, Yet that pathetic pendulum Keeps 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 on The old, old sophistries of June, -- A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries 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 snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day How some one treated him; Nature, like us, is sometimes caught Without her diadem.

XXX.

THE HEMLOCK.

I think the hemlock likes to stand Upon 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 winds Is sweetest nutriment to him, His best Norwegian wines.

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

XXXI.

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

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

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

When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, 't is like the distance On 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 parting Their hundred hats they raise!

How pomp surpassing ermine, When simple you and I Present 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 be Any 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, disperse And 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 eyes On whom the summer shone!

The quiet nonchalance of death No daybreak can bestir; The slow archangel's syllables Must awaken her.

VI.

FROM THE CHRYSALIS.

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

A power of butterfly must be The aptitude to fly, Meadows of majesty concedes And easy sweeps of sky.

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

VII.

SETTING SAIL.

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

Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land?

VIII.

Look back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best; How softly sinks his trembling sun In 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 throat Till all the churchyard rang;

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

X.

I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In 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 fingers Never 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 feign The beads upon the forehead By homely anguish strung.

XIII.

THE FUNERAL.

That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious 'T is almost consequence,

Is the eclat of death. Oh, thou unknown renown That 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 sea To look upon her like, alive, But turning back 't was slow.

XV.

I've seen a dying eye Run round and round a room In 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 spot As if the chart were given.

XVIII.

PLAYMATES.

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

God calls home the angels promptly At 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 near To 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 say At news that he ceased human nature On such a day?

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

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

Was he afraid, or tranquil? Might he know How 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 us Made nature different.

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

That others could exist While she must finish quite, A jealousy for her arose So 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 reed Bent 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 face Sounds long, until I read the place Where this is said to be But just the primer to a life Unopened, rare, upon the shelf, Clasped yet to him and me.

And yet, my primer suits me so I would not choose a book to know Than 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 house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth, --

The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity.

XXIII.

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

I reason, we could die: The best vitality Cannot excel decay; But what of that?

I reason that in heaven Somehow, 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 lodge As much abasheth me.

Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing That comprehendeth me In one or more existences At Deity's decree.

Of resurrection? Is the east Afraid to trust the morn With her fastidious forehead? As soon impeach my crown!

XXV.

DYING.

The sun kept setting, setting still; No hue of afternoon Upon 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 myself Unto my seeming make?

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

XXVI.

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

The stray ships passing spied a face Upon 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 ourselves And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My 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 seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound.

Since then 't is centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

XXVIII.

She went as quiet as the dew From a familiar flower. Not like the dew did she return At the accustomed hour!

She dropt as softly as a star From out my summer's eve; Less skilful than Leverrier It'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 are Between 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 dew That on the acre lies.

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

XXXI.

Death is a dialogue between The 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 face Of our old neighbor, God!

XXXIII.

ALONG THE POTOMAC.

When I was small, a woman died. To-day her only boy Went up from the Potomac, His face all victory,

To look at her; how slowly The seasons must have turned Till bullets clipt an angle, And he passed quickly round!

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

But proud in apparition, That woman and her boy Pass 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 liberty Behind this mortal bone There 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 nest No easier divest And gain the sky, Than mayest thou,

Except thyself may be Thine 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 stars Around its forehead bound.

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

XXXVII.

If I should n't be alive When the robins come, Give the one in red cravat A memorial crumb.

If I could n't thank you, Being just asleep, You will know I'm trying With my granite lip!

XXXVIII.

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

Sleep is the station grand Down which on either hand The 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 be East 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 anguish In the fair schoolroom of the sky.