How fits his Umber Coat
The Tailor of the Nut?
Combined without a seam
Like Raiment of a Dream —
Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
Computed how the girth?
The Chestnut aged grows
In those primeval Clothes —
We know that we are wise —
Accomplished in Surprise —...
My little devices to live till Monday would woo your sad attention - Full of work and plots and little happinesses the Thought of you protracts them all and makes them sham and cold -
How fleet - how indiscreet an one -
how always wrong is Love -
The joyful little Deity
We are not scourged to serve -...
How fortunate the Grave —
All Prizes to obtain —
Successful certain, if at last,
First Suitor not in vain.
There's never a stone at the sleeper's head,
There's never a fence beside,
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
Unnoticed and undenied;
But the smallest child on the Watershed
Can tell you how Gilbert died.
For he rode at dusk with his comrade Dunn
To the hut at the Stockman's...
How good his Lava Bed,
To this laborious Boy —
Who must be up to call the World
And dress the sleepy Day —
How happy I was if I could forget
To remember how sad I am
Would be an easy adversity
But the recollecting of Bloom
Keeps making November difficult
Till I who was almost bold
Lose my way like a little Child
And perish of the cold.
How happy is the little Stone
That rambles in the Road alone,
And doesn't care about Careers
And Exigencies never fears —
Whose Coat of elemental Brown
A passing Universe put on,
And independent as the Sun
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute Decree
In casual...
How Human Nature dotes
On what it can't detect.
The moment that a Plot is plumbed
Prospective is extinct —
Prospective is the friend
Reserved for us to know
When Constancy is clarified
Of Curiosity —
Of subjects that resist
Redoubtablest is this
...
How know it from a Summer's Day?
Its Fervors are as firm —
And nothing in the Countenance
But scintillates the same —
Yet Birds examine it and flee —
And Vans without a name
Inspect the Admonition
And sunder as they came —
How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights —
When people have put out the Lights
And everything that has an Inn
Closes the shutter and goes in —
How pompous the Wind must feel Noons
Stepping to incorporeal Tunes
Correcting errors of the sky
And clarifying scenery
How...