She could not live upon the Past
The Present did not know her
And so she sought this sweet at last
And nature gently owned her
The mother that has not a knell
for either Duke or Robin
-
-
She died at play,
Gambolled away
Her lease of spotted hours,
Then sank as gaily as a Turk
Upon a Couch of flowers.
Her ghost strolled softly o'er the hill
Yesterday, and Today,
Her vestments as the silver fleece —
Her countenance as spray. -
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. -
She hideth Her the last —
And is the first, to rise —
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes —
She doth Her Purple Work —
And putteth Her away
In low Apartments in the Sod -
As worthily as We.
To imitate her life
As impotent would be...She rose to His Requirement — dropt
The Playthings of Her Life
To take the honorable Work
Of Woman, and of Wife —
If ought She missed in Her new Day,
Of Amplitude, or Awe —
Or first Prospective — Or the Gold
In using, wear away,
It lay unmentioned — as the Sea
...She sped as Petals of a Rose
Offended by the Wind —
A frail Aristocrat of Time
Indemnity to find —
Leaving on nature — a Default
As Cricket or as Bee —
But Andes in the Bosoms where
She had begun to lie —She staked her Feathers — Gained an Arc —
Debated — Rose again —
This time — beyond the estimate
Of Envy, or of Men —
And now, among Circumference —
Her steady Boat be seen —
At home — among the Billows — As
The Bough where she was born —She sweeps with many-colored Brooms —
And leaves the Shreds behind —
Oh Housewife in the Evening West —
Come back, and dust the Pond!
You dropped a Purple Ravelling in —
You dropped an Amber thread —
And how you've littered all the East
With duds of Emerald!
And still...She went as quiet as the dew
From 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 skilful than Leverrier
It's sorer...She's happy, with a new Content —
...
That feels to her — like Sacrament —
She's busy — with an altered Care —
As just apprenticed to the Air —
She's tearful — if she weep at all —
For blissful Causes — Most of all
That Heaven permit so meek as her —
To such a Fate — to Minister.