Fascicle 7 (c.1860)

J 59 · notes

A little East of Jordan,
Evangelists record,
A Gymnast and an Angel
Did wrestle long and hard –

Till morning touching mountain –
And Jacob, waxing strong,
The Angel begged permission
To Breakfast – to return –

Not so, said cunning Jacob!
“I will not let thee go
Except thou bless me” – Stranger! [– Signor]
The which acceded to –

Light swung the silver fleeces
“Peniel” Hills beyond,
And the bewildered Gymnast
Found he had worsted God!

J 148 · notes

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.

     Or –

Gathered from many wanderings –
Gethsemane can tell
Thro’ what transporting anguish
She reached the Asphodel!

Soft fall the sounds of Eden
Upon her puzzled ear –
Oh what an afternoon for
When “Bronte” entered there!

J 100 · notes

A science – so the Savants say,
“Comparative Anatomy” –
By which a single bone –
Is made a secret to unfold
Of some rare tenant of the mold –
Else perished in the stone –

So to the eye prospective led,
This meekest flower of the mead
Opon a winter’s day,
Stands representative in gold
Of Rose and Lily, manifold,
And countless Butterfly!

J 101 · notes

Will there really be a “Morning”?
Is there such a thing as “Day”?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Man from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called “Morning” lies!

J 102 · notes

Great Caesar! Condescend
The Daisy, to receive,
Gathered by Cato’s Daughter,
With your majestic leave!

J 103 · notes

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

And if I do – when morning comes –
It is as if a hundred drums
Did round my pillow roll,
And shouts fill all my Childish sky,
And Bells keep saying ‘Victory’
From steeples in my soul!

And if I don’t – the little Bird
Within the Orchard, is not heard,
And I omit to pray
‘Father, thy will be done’ today
For my will goes the other way,
And it were perjury!

J 104 · notes

Where I have lost, I softer tread –
I sow sweet flower from garden bed –
I pause above that vanished head
       And mourn.

Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word –
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
       Though stone!

When I have lost, you’ll know by this —
A Bonnet black – A dusk surplice –
A little tremor in my voice
       Like this!

Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in frocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
       Next Bliss!

J 149 · notes

She went as quiet as the Dew
From an Accustomed [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 skillful than Le Verriere
It’s sorer to believe!

J 105 · notes

To hang our head – ostensibly –
And subsequent, to find
That such was not the posture
Of our immortal mind –

Affords the sly presumption
That in so dense a fuzz –
You – too – take Cobweb attitudes
Upon a plane of Gauze!

J 106 · notes

The Daisy follows soft the Sun –
And when his golden walk is done –
Sits shyly at his feet –
He – waking – finds the flower there –
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!
Enamored of the parting West –
The peace – the flight – the Amethyst –
Night’s possibility!

J 60 · notes

Like her the Saints retire –
In their Chapeaux of fire –
Martial as she!

Like her the Evenings steal
Purple and Cochineal
After the Day!

“Departed” – both – they say!
i.e. gathered away –
Not found.

Argues the Aster still –
Reasons the Daffodil

J 61 · notes

   Papa above!
Regard a Mouse
O’erpowered by the Cat!
Reserve within thy kingdom
A “Mansion” for the Rat!

Snug in seraphic Cupboards
To nibble all the day –
While unsuspecting Cycles
Wheel solemnly away!

J 107

’Twas such a little – little boat
That toddled down the bay!
’Twas such a gallant – gallant sea
That beckoned it away!

’Twas such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the Coast –
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!

J 62

"Sown in dishonor"!
Ah! Indeed!
May this "dishonor" be?
If I were half so fine myself
I'd notice nobody!

"Sown in corruption"!
Not so fast!
Apostle is askew!
Corinthians 1. 15. narrates
A Circumstance or two!

J 150

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.

J 63

If pain for peace prepares
Lo, what "Augustan" years
Our feet await!

If springs from winter rise,
Can the Anemones
Be reckoned up?

If night stands fast — then noon
To gird us for the sun,
What gaze!

When from a thousand skies
On our developed eyes
Noons blaze!

J 108

Surgeons must be very careful
When they take the knife!
Underneath their fine incisions
Stirs the Culprit — Life!

J 64

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 today
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 Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas —
Or what Circassian Land?

J 109

By a flower — By a letter —
By a nimble love —
If I weld the Rivet faster —
Final fast — above —

Never mind my breathless Anvil!
Never mind Repose!
Never mind the sooty faces
Tugging at the Forge!

J 65

I can't tell you — but you feel it —
Nor can you tell me —
Saints, with ravished slate and pencil
Solve our April Day!

Sweeter than a vanished frolic
From a vanished green!
Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen
Round a Ledge of dream!

Modest, let us walk among it
With our faces veiled —
As they say polite Archangels
Do in meeting God!

Not for me — to prate about it!
Not for you — to say
To some fashionable Lady
"Charming April Day"!

Rather — Heaven's "Peter Parley"!
By which Children slow
To sublimer Recitation
Are prepared to go!