The Birds begun at Four o'clock —
Their period for Dawn —
A Music numerous as space —
But neighboring as Noon —
I could not count their Force —
Their Voices did expend
As Brook by Brook bestows itself
To multiply the Pond.
Their Witnesses were not —
Except...
The Birds reported from the South —
A News express to Me —
A spicy Charge, My little Posts —
But I am deaf — Today —
The Flowers — appealed — a timid Throng —
I reinforced the Door —
Go blossom for the Bees — I said —
And trouble Me — no More —
The Summer Grace, for...
The Black Berry — wears a Thorn in his side —
But no Man heard Him cry —
He offers His Berry, just the same
To Partridge — and to Boy —
He sometimes holds upon the Fence —
Or struggles to a Tree —
Or clasps a Rock, with both His Hands —
But not for Sympathy —
We — tell...
The Blunder is in estimate.
Eternity is there
We say, as of a Station —
Meanwhile he is so near
He joins me in my Ramble —
Divides abode with me —
No Friend have I that so persists
As this Eternity.
The Bobolink is gone —
The Rowdy of the Meadow —
And no one swaggers now but me —
The Presbyterian Birds
Can now resume the Meeting
He boldly interrupted that overflowing Day
When supplicating mercy
In a portentous way
He swung upon the Decalogue
And shouted let us...
The Body grows without —
The more convenient way —
That if the Spirit — like to hide
Its Temple stands, alway,
Ajar — secure — inviting —
It never did betray
The Soul that asked its shelter
In solemn honesty
The Bone that has no Marrow,
What Ultimate for that?
It is not fit for Table
For Beggar or for Cat.
A Bone has obligations —
A Being has the same —
A Marrowless Assembly
Is culpabler than shame.
But how shall finished Creatures
A function fresh obtain?...
The Brain — is wider than the Sky —
For — put them side by side —
The one the other will contain
With ease — and You — beside —
The Brain is deeper than the sea —
For — hold them — Blue to Blue —
The one the other will absorb —
As Sponges — Buckets — do —
The Brain is...
The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly — and true —
But let a Splinter swerve —
'Twere easier for You —
To put a Current back —
When Floods have slit the Hills —
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves —
And trodden out the Mills —
I came, but she was gone. In her fair home,
There lay her lute, just as she touched it last,
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Fill'd with pure fragrance. On her favourite seat
Lay the still open work-box, and that book
Which last she read, its pencil'd margin...