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 Heaven, 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 Profound!
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!
’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!
"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!
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.
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!
Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit — Life!
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?
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!
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!