Poems List
Better—than Music! For I—who heard it
503
Better—than Music! For I—who heard it—
I was used—to the Birds—before—
This—was different—'Twas Translation—
Of all tunes I knew—and more—
'Twasn't contained—like other stanza—
No one could play it—the second time—
But the Composer—perfect Mozart—
Perish with him—that Keyless Rhyme!
So—Children—told how Brooks in Eden—
Bubbled a better—Melody—
Quaintly infer—Eve's great surrender—
Urging the feet—that would—not—fly—
Children—matured—are wiser—mostly—
Eden—a legend—dimly told—
Eve—and the Anguish—Grandame's story—
But—I was telling a tune—I heard—
Not such a strain—the Church—baptizes—
When the last Saint—goes up the Aisles—
Not such a stanza splits the silence—
When the Redemption strikes her Bells—
Let me not spill—its smallest cadence—
Humming—for promise—when alone—
Humming—until my faint Rehearsal—
Drop into tune—around the Throne—
While Asters
331
While Asters-
On the Hill-
Their Everlasting fashions-set-
And Covenant Gentians-Frill!
Where Thou art—that—is Home
725
Where Thou art—that—is Home—
Cashmere—or Calvary—the same—
Degree—or Shame—
I scarce esteem Location's Name—
So I may Come—
What Thou dost—is Delight—
Bondage as Play—be sweet—
Imprisonment—Content—
And Sentence—Sacrament—
Just We two—meet—
Where Thou art not—is Woe—
Tho' Bands of Spices—row—
What Thou dost not—Despair—
Tho' Gabriel—praise me—Sire—
Best Gains—must have the Losses' Test
684
Best Gains—must have the Losses' Test—
To constitute them—Gains—
Besides the Autumn poets sing
131
Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze-
A few incisive Mornings-
A few Ascetic EvesGone-
Mr. Bryant's "Golden Rod"-
And Mr. Thomson's "sheaves."
Still, is the bustle in the Brook-
Sealed are the spicy valves-
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves-
Perhaps a squirrel may remain-
My sentiments to share-
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind-
Thy windy will to bear!
Where I have lost, I softer tread
104
Where I have lost, I softer tread-
I sow sweet flower from garden bed-
I pause above that vanished head
And mourn.
Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word-
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
Though stone!
When I have lost, you'll know by this-
A Bonnet black-A dusk surplice-
A little tremor in my voice
Like this!
Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
Next Bliss!
When we stand on the tops of Things
242
When we stand on the tops of Things-
And like the Trees, look down-
The smoke all cleared away from it-
And Mirrors on the scene-
Just laying light-no soul will wink
Except it have the flaw-
The Sound ones, like the Hills-shall stand-
No Lighting, scares away-
The Perfect, nowhere be afraid-
They bear their dauntless Heads,
Where others, dare not go at Noon,
Protected by their deeds-
The Stars dare shine occasionally
Upon a spotted World-
And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,
As if an Axle, held-
Bereaved of all, I went abroad
784
Bereaved of all, I went abroad-
No less bereaved was I
Upon a New Peninsula-
The Grave preceded me-
Obtained my Lodgings, ere myself-
And when I sought my Bed-
The Grave it was reposed upon
The Pillow for my Head-
I waked to find it first awake-
I rose-It followed me-
I tried to drop it in the Crowd-
To lose it in the Sea-
In Cups of artificial Drowse
To steep its shape away-
The Grave-was finished-but the Spade
Remained in Memory-
Before you thought of spring,
Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.
With specimens of song,
As if for you to choose,
Discretion in the interval,
With gay delays he goes
To some superior tree
Without a single leaf,
And shouts for joy to nobody
But his seraphic self!
When Roses cease to bloom, Sir
32
When Roses cease to bloom, Sir,
And Violets are done-
When Bumblebees in solemn flight
Have passed beyond the Sun-
The hand that paused to gather
Upon this Summer's day
Will idle lie-in Auburn-
Then take my flowers-pray!
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