J 73, Fr 136
Who never lost, are unprepared A Coronet to find! Who never thirsted Flagons, and Cooling Tamarind! Who never climbed the weary league — Can such a foot explore The purple territories On Pizarro's shore? How many Legions overcome — The Emperor will say? How many Colors taken On Revolution Day? How many Bullets bearest? Hast Thou the Royal scar? Angels! Write "Promoted" On this Soldier's brow!
J 74, Fr 137
A Lady red — amid 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 Hedge! As if the "Resurrection" Were nothing very strange!
J 126, Fr 138
To fight aloud, is very brave — But gallanter, I know Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe — Who win, and nations do not see — Who fall — and none observe — Whose dying eyes, no Country Regards with patriot love — We trust, in plumed procession For such, the Angels go — Rank after Rank, with even feet — And Uniforms of Snow.
J 127, Fr 139
"Houses" — so the Wise Men tell me — "Mansions"! Mansions must be warm! Mansions cannot let the tears in, Mansions must exclude the storm! "Many Mansions," by "his Father," I don't know him; snugly built! Could the Children find the way there — Some, would even trudge tonight!
J 128, Fr 140
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 breadth 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?
J 75, Fr 141
She died at play, Gambolled away Her lease of spotted hours, Then sank as gaily as a Turk Upon a Couch of flowers. Her ghost strolled softly o'er the hill Yesterday, and Today, Her vestments as the silver fleece — Her countenance as spray.
J 129, Fr 142
Cocoon above! Cocoon below! Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you so What all the world suspect? An hour, and gay on every tree Your secret, perched in ecstasy Defies imprisonment! An hour in Chrysalis to pass, Then gay above receding grass A Butterfly to go! A moment to interrogate, Then wiser than a "Surrogate," The Universe to know!
J 76, Fr 143
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?
J 77, Fr 144
I never hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation A flying attitude! I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars Only to fail again!
J 130, Fr 122
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 resume 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 thro' 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 — They consecrated bread to take And thine immortal wine!
J 131, Fr 123
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 Eves — 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, Oh Lord, a sunny mind — Thy windy will to bear!
J 216, Fr 124
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 above them — Babbles the Bee in a stolid Ear, Pipe the Sweet Birds in ignorant cadence — Ah, what sagacity perished here!
J 78, Fr 125
A poor — torn heart — a tattered heart — That sat it down to rest — Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day Flowed silver to the West — Nor noticed Night did soft descend — Nor Constellation burn — Intent upon the vision Of latitudes unknown. The angels — happening that way This dusty heart espied — Tenderly took it up from toil And carried it to God — There — sandals for the Barefoot — There — gathered from the gales — Do the blue havens by the hand Lead the wandering Sails.
J 132, Fr 126
I bring an unaccustomed wine To lips long parching Next to mine, And summon them to drink; Crackling with fever, they Essay, I turn my brimming eyes away, And come next hour to look. The hands still hug the tardy glass — The lips I would have cooled, alas — Are so superfluous Cold — I would as soon attempt to warm The bosoms where the frost has lain Ages beneath the mould — Some other thirsty there may be To whom this would have pointed me Had it remained to speak — And so I always bear the cup If, haply, mine may be the drop Some pilgrim thirst to slake — If, haply, any say to me "Unto the little, unto me," When I at last awake.
J 133, Fr 127
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.
J 79, Fr 128
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 space 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'm glad they did believe it Whom I have never found Since the might Autumn afternoon I left them in the ground.
J 80, Fr 129
Our lives are Swiss — So still — so Cool — Till some odd afternoon The Alps neglect their Curtains And we look farther on! Italy stands the other side! While like a guard between — The solemn Alps — The siren Alps Forever intervene!