Poems List
The Birds begun at Four o'clock
783
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 occasional man-
In homely industry arrayed-
To overtake the Morn-
Nor was it for applause-
That I could ascertain-
But independent Ecstasy
Of Deity and Men-
By Six, the Flood had done-
No Tumult there had been
Of Dressing, or Departure-
And yet the Band was gone-
The Sun engrossed the East-
The Day controlled the World-
The Miracle that introduced
Forgotten, as fulfilled.
The Bible is an antique Volume
1545
The Bible is an antique Volume-
Written by faded men
At the suggestion of Holy SpectresSubjects-
BethlehemEden-
the ancient HomesteadSatan-
the BrigadierJudas-
the Great DefaulterDavid-
the TroubadorSin-
a distinguished Precipice
Others must resist-
Boys that "believe" are very lonesome-
Other Boys are "lost"-
Had but the Tale a warbling Teller-
All the Boys would come-
Orpheus' Sermon captivated-
It did not condemn-
The Bee is not afraid of me
111
The Bee is not afraid of me.
I know the Butterfly.
The pretty people in the Woods
Receive me cordially-
The Brooks laugh louder when I come-
The Breezes madder play;
Wherefore mine eye thy silver mists,
Wherefore, Oh Summer's Day?
The Angle of a Landscape
375
The Angle of a Landscape-
That every time I wake-
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack-
Like a Venetian-waiting-
Accosts my open eye-
Is just a Bough of Apples-
Held slanting, in the Sky-
The Pattern of a Chimney-
The Forehead of a HillSometimes-
a Vane's Forefinger-
But that's-Occasional-
The Seasons-shift-my Picture-
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake-to find no-EmeraldsThen-
Diamonds-which the Snow
From Polar Caskets-fetched me-
The Chimney-and the Hill-
And just the Steeple's fingerThese-
never stir at all-
That is solemn we have ended
934
That is solemn we have ended
Be it but a Play
Or a Glee among the Garret
Or a Holiday
Or a leaving Home, or later,
Parting with a World
We have understood for better
Still to be explained.
That first Day, when you praised Me, Sweet
659
That first Day, when you praised Me, Sweet,
And said that I was strong-
And could be mighty, if I liked-
That Day-the Days among-
Glows Central-like a Jewel
Between Diverging Golds-
The Minor One-that gleamed behind-
And Vaster-of the World's.
That after Horror—that 'twas us
286
That after Horror—that 'twas us—
That passed the mouldering Pier—
Just as the Granite Crumb let go—
Our Savior, by a Hair—
A second more, had dropped too deep
For Fisherman to plumb—
The very profile of the Thought
Puts Recollection numb—
The possibility—to pass
Without a Moment's Bell—
Into Conjecture's presence—
Is like a Face of Steel—
That suddenly looks into ours
With a metallic grin—
The Cordiality of Death—
Who drills his Welcome in—
Teach Him—When He makes the names
227
Teach Him—When He makes the names—
Such an one—to say—
On his babbling—Berry—lips—
As should sound—to me—
Were my Ear—as near his nest—
As my thought—today—
As should sound—
"Forbid us not"—
Some like "Emily."
Taking up the fair Ideal
428
Taking up the fair Ideal,
Just to cast her down
When a fracture-we discover-
Or a splintered Crown-
Makes the Heavens portable-
And the Gods-a lieDoubtless-"
Adam"-scowled at Eden-
For his perjury!
Cherishing-our pool Ideal-
Till in purer dress-
We behold her-glorifiedComforts-
search-like this-
Till the broken creatures-
We adored-for wholeStains-
all washedTransfigured-
mended-
Meet us-with a smile-
T was just this time last year I died.
'T was just this time last year I died.
I know I heard the corn,
When I was carried by the farms,-It
had the tassels on.
I thought how yellow it would look
When Richard went to mill;
And then I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.
I thought just how red apples wedged
The stubble's joints between;
And carts went stooping round the fields
To take the pumpkins in.
I wondered which would miss me least,
And when Thanksgiving came,
If father'd multiply the plates
To make an even sum.
And if my stocking hung too high,
Would it blur the Christmas glee,
That not a Santa Claus could reach
The altitude of me?
But this sort grieved myself, and so
I thought how it would be
When just this time, some perfect year,
Themselves should come to me.
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