There are two Ripenings — one — of sight —
Whose forces Spheric wind
Until the Velvet product
Drop spicy to the ground —
A homelier maturing —
A process in the Bur —
That teeth of Frosts alone disclose
In far October Air.
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There came a Day at Summer's full,
Entirely for me —
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections — be —
The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new —
The time was scarce...There came a Wind like a Bugle —
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the Windows and the Doors
As from an Emerald Ghost —
The Doom's electric Moccasin
That very instant passed —
On a strange Mob of panting Trees
...There comes a warning like a spy
A shorter breath of Day
A stealing that is not a stealth
And Summers are away —There comes an hour when begging stops,
When the long interceding lips
Perceive their prayer is vain.
"Thou shalt not" is a kinder sword
Than from a disappointing God
"Disciple, call again."There is a finished feeling
Experienced at Graves —
A leisure of the Future —
A Wilderness of Size.
By Death's bold Exhibition
Preciser what we are
And the Eternal function
Enabled to infer.There is a flower that Bees prefer —
And Butterflies — desire —
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird — aspire —
And Whatsoever Insect pass —
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her — capacity —
Her face be rounder than the Moon
...There is a June when Corn is cut
And Roses in the Seed —
A Summer briefer than the first
But tenderer indeed
As should a Face supposed the Grave's
Emerge a single Noon
In the Vermilion that it wore
Affect us, and return —
Two Seasons, it is said, exist —
...There is a Languor of the Life
More imminent than Pain —
'Tis Pain's Successor — When the Soul
Has suffered all it can —
A Drowsiness — diffuses —
A Dimness like a Fog
Envelops Consciousness —
As Mists — obliterate a Crag.
The Surgeon — does not blanch — at pain
...There is a morn by men unseen —
Whose maids upon remoter green
Keep their Seraphic May —
And all day long, with dance and game,
And gambol I may never name —
Employ their holiday.
Here to light measure, move the feet
Which walk no more the village street —
Nor by the wood...