Chapter 3

XXX.

THE WIND'S VISIT.

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

A rapid, footless guest, To offer whom a chair Were as impossible as hand A sofa to the air.

No bone had he to bind him, His speech was like the push Of numerous humming-birds at once From a superior bush.

His countenance a billow, His fingers, if he pass, Let go a music, as of tunes Blown 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 affords Only 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 stone That rambles in the road alone, And does n't care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In 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 wit To sound or circumvent, Hate cannot harm A foe so reticent.

Neither decree Prohibits him, Lawful as Equilibrium.

XXXVI.

Frequently the woods are pink, Frequently are brown; Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town.

Oft a head is crested I was wont to see, And as oft a cranny Where it used to be.

And the earth, they tell me, On its axis turned, -- Wonderful rotation By but twelve performed!

XXXVII.

A THUNDER-STORM.

The wind begun to rock the grass With threatening tunes and low, -- He flung a menace at the earth, A menace at the sky.

The leaves unhooked themselves from trees And started all abroad; The dust did scoop itself like hands And 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 pause On their passage Cashmere; I, softly plucking, Present them here!

XXXIX.

SUNSET.

Where ships of purple gently toss On 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 East With 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 red At bases of the trees, -- The far theatricals of day Exhibiting to these.

'T was universe that did applaud While, 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 be In 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 house And 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 horizon Laying 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 celebrates Its unobtrusive mass.

No ordinance is seen, So gradual the grace, A pensive custom it becomes, Enlarging loneliness.

Antiquest felt at noon When August, burning low, Calls forth this spectral canticle, Repose to typify.

Remit as yet no grace, No furrow on the glow, Yet a druidic difference Enhances nature now.

XLV.

As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, -- Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy.

A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, spending with herself Sequestered 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 escape Into 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 cross Before the blackbirds sing.

It can't be dying, -- it's too rouge, -- The dead shall go in white. So sunset shuts my question down With clasps of chrysolite.

XLVII.

SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES.

The gentian weaves her fringes, The maple's loom is red. My departing blossoms Obviate 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 bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!

XLVIII.

FRINGED GENTIAN.

God made a little gentian; It tried to be a rose And failed, and all the summer laughed. But just before the snows There came a purple creature That ravished all the hill; And summer hid her forehead, And mockery was still. The frosts were her condition; The Tyrian would not come Until the North evoked it. "Creator! shall I bloom?"

XLIX.

NOVEMBER.

Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And 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 touch The 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 wool The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain, -- Unbroken forehead from the east Unto 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 year So civic as the jay. A neighbor and a warrior too, With shrill felicity

Pursuing winds that censure us A February day, The brother of the universe Was never blown away.

The snow and he are intimate; I 've often seen them play When heaven looked upon us all With such severity,

I felt apology were due To an insulted sky, Whose pompous frown was nutriment To their temerity.

The pillow of this daring head Is pungent evergreens; His larder -- terse and militant -- Unknown, refreshing things;

His character a tonic, His future a dispute; Unfair an immortality That leaves this neighbor out.

IV.

TIME AND ETERNITY.

I.

Let down the bars, O Death! The tired flocks come in Whose 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 astonished To think of answering you! Going to heaven! -- How dim it sounds! And yet it will be done As sure as flocks go home at night Unto the shepherd's arm!

Perhaps you 're going too! Who knows? If you should get there first, Save just a little place for me Close 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 dress When 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 more At such a curious earth! I am glad they did believe it Whom I have never found Since the mighty autumn afternoon I left them in the ground.

III.

At least to pray is left, is left. O Jesus! in the air I 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 grows Is not so ample as the breast These emerald seams enclose.

Step lofty; for this name is told As far as cannon dwell, Or flag subsist, or fame export Her 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 some Who, till they died, did not alive become; Who, had they lived, had died, but when They died, vitality begun.

VII.

I read my sentence steadily, Reviewed it with my eyes, To see that I made no mistake In its extremest clause, --

The date, and manner of the shame; And then the pious form That "God have mercy" on the soul The jury voted him.

I made my soul familiar With her extremity, That at the last it should not be A 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 now To 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 forests The day that I shall go,

Nor lisp it at the table, Nor heedless by the way Hint that within the riddle One 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 saw Was 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 breeze That dies away in dimples Among the pensive trees. Our interview was transient,-- Of me, himself was shy; And God forbid I look behind Since that appalling day!

XI.

Some, too fragile for winter winds, The thoughtful grave encloses, -- Tenderly tucking them in from frost Before their feet are cold.

Never the treasures in her nest The cautious grave exposes, Building where schoolboy dare not look And sportsman is not bold.

This covert have all the children Early 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 mathematics We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes!

XIII.

MEMORIALS.

Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships In 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 dust Upon 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 tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.

XIV.

I went to heaven, -- 'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew. People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names. Almost contented I could be 'Mong such unique Society.

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 frontier That 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 until It pleased my narrow eyes

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

XVI.

There is a shame of nobleness Confronting sudden pelf, -- A finer shame of ecstasy Convicted 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 room When that old imperator, Death, By faith is overcome.

There 's triumph of the finer mind When truth, affronted long, Advances calm to her supreme, Her God her only throng.

A triumph when temptation's bribe Is slowly handed back, One eye upon the heaven renounced And one upon the rack.

Severer triumph, by himself Experienced, who can pass Acquitted from that naked bar, Jehovah's countenance!

XVIII.

Pompless no life can pass away; The lowliest career To the same pageant wends its way As that exalted here. How cordial is the mystery! The hospitable pall A "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 visited And settled regions wild, But did because they died, -- a fact Withheld 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 arose For 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 gown And 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 theme The 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 thing That 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 come To 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 break Excellent and fair.

Be its mattress straight, Be its pillow round; Let no sunrise' yellow noise Interrupt this ground.

XXIV.

GOING.

On such a night, or such a night, Would anybody care If such a little figure Slipped quiet from its chair,

So quiet, oh, how quiet! That nobody might know But that the little figure Rocked softer, to and fro?

On such a dawn, or such a dawn, Would anybody sigh That such a little figure Too 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 plump For 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 charged Should reach so small a goal!

XXV.

Essential oils are wrung: The attar from the rose Is 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 lies In ceaseless rosemary.

XXVI.

I lived on dread; to those who know The stimulus there is In danger, other impetus Is numb and vital-less.

As 't were a spur upon the soul, A fear will urge it where To go without the spectre's aid Were 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 option From enterprise below! 'T is sweet to know that stocks will stand When we with daisies lie, That commerce will continue, And trades as briskly fly. It makes the parting tranquil And keeps the soul serene, That gentlemen so sprightly Conduct the pleasing scene!

XXVIII.

AT LENGTH.

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

A further force of life Developed from within, -- When Death lit all the shortness up, And made the hurry plain.

We wondered at our blindness, -- When nothing was to see But 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 surpassing Material place.

Far safer, of a midnight meeting External ghost, Than an interior confronting That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one's own self encounter In 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 spectre More near.

XXX.

VANISHED.

She died, -- this was the way she died; And when her breath was done, Took up her simple wardrobe And started for the sun.

Her little figure at the gate The angels must have spied, Since I could never find her Upon the mortal side.

XXXI.

PRECEDENCE.

Wait till the majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered footman Might dare to touch it now!

Wait till in everlasting robes This democrat is dressed, Then prate about "preferment" And "station" and the rest!

Around this quiet courtier Obsequious angels wait! Full royal is his retinue, Full purple is his state!

A lord might dare to lift the hat To 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 bravos The 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 time When, were the gales propitious, We might look for him; Was grateful for the roses In life's diverse bouquet, Talked softly of new species To pick another day.

Beguiling thus the wonder, The wondrous nearer drew; Hands bustled at the moorings -- The crowd respectful grew. Ascended from our vision To 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 banners Who 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 this Where for the night Peculiar 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 bells Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh I felt siroccos crawl, -- Nor fire, for just my marble feet Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all; The figures I have seen Set orderly, for burial, Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven And 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 land To justify despair.

XXXVI.

TILL THE END.

I should not dare to leave my friend, Because -- because if he should die While I was gone, and I -- too late -- Should reach the heart that wanted me;

If I should disappoint the eyes That hunted, hunted so, to see, And could not bear to shut until They "noticed" me -- they noticed me;

If I should stab the patient faith So sure I 'd come -- so sure I 'd come, It listening, listening, went to sleep Telling 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 away To neighborhoods of pause; Here was no notice, no dissent, No universe, no laws.

By clocks 't was morning, and for night The bells at distance called; But epoch had no basis here, For period exhaled.

XXXVIII.

A throe upon the features A hurry in the breath, An ecstasy of parting Denominated "Death," --

An anguish at the mention, Which, when to patience grown, I 've known permission given To rejoin its own.

XXXIX.

SAVED!

Of tribulation these are they Denoted by the white; The spangled gowns, a lesser rank Of victors designate.

All these did conquer; but the ones Who overcame most times Wear nothing commoner than snow, No ornament but palms.

Surrender is a sort unknown On this superior soil; Defeat, an outgrown anguish, Remembered as the mile