On the World you colored
Morning painted rose —
Idle his Vermillion
Aimless crept the Glows
Over Realms of Orchards
I the Day before
Conquered with the Robin —
Misery - how fair
Till your wrinkled Finger
Shoved the sun away
Midnight's awful Pattern
...
Spring comes on the World —
I sight the Aprils —
Hueless to me until thou come
As, till the Bee
Blossoms stand negative,
Touched to Conditions
By a Hum.
The going from a world we know
To one a wonder still
Is like the child's adversity
Whose vista is a hill,
Behind the hill is sorcery
And everything unknown,
But will the secret compensate
For climbing it alone?
The World — stands — solemner — to me —
Since I was wed — to Him —
A modesty befits the soul
That bears another's — name —
A doubt — if it be fair — indeed —
To wear that perfect — pearl —
The Man — upon the Woman — binds —
To clasp her soul — for all —
A prayer, that it more...
This is my letter to the World
That never wrote to Me —
The simple News that Nature told —
With tender Majesty
Her Message is committed
To Hands I cannot see —
For love of Her — Sweet — countrymen —
Judge tenderly — of Me
To this World she returned.
But with a tinge of that —
A Compound manner,
As a Sod
Espoused a Violet,
That chiefer to the Skies
Than to himself, allied,
Dwelt hesitating, half of Dust,
And half of Day, the Bride.