Seasons (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)

There is a flower that Bees prefer

380

There is a flower that Bees prefer-
And Butterflies-desire-
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird-aspire-

And Whatsoever Insect pass-
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her-capacity-

Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture-
Or Rhododendron-worn-

She doth not wait for June-
Before the World be Green-
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind-be seen-

Contending with the Grass-
Near Kinsman to Herself-
For Privilege of Sod and Sun-
Sweet Litigants for Life-

And when the Hills be full-
And newer fashions blow-
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy-

Her Public-be the Noon-
Her Providence-the Sun-
Her Progress-by the Bee-proclaimed-
In sovereign-Swerveless Tune-

The Bravest-of the HostSurrendering-
the last-
Nor even of Defeat-aware-
What cancelled by the Frost-

There are two Ripenings—one—of sight

332

There are two Ripenings—one—of sight—
Whose forces Spheric wind
Until the Velvet product
Drop spicy to the ground—
A homelier maturing—
A process in the Bur—
That teeth of Frosts alone disclose
In far October Air.

The Skies can't keep their secret!

191

The Skies can't keep their secret!
They tell it to the Hills-
The Hills just tell the Orchards-
And they-the Daffodils!


A Bird-by chance-that goes that way-
Soft overhears the whole-
If I should bribe the little Bird-
Who knows but she would tell?


I think I won't-howeverIt's
finer-not to know-
If Summer were an Axiom-
What sorcery had Snow?


So keep your secret-Father!
I would not-if I could,
Know what the Sapphire Fellows, do,
In your new-fashioned world!

The Robin's my Criterion for Tune

285

The Robin's my Criterion for Tune-
Because I grow-where Robins do-
But, were I Cuckoo bornI'd
swear by him-
The ode familiar-rules the Noon-
The Buttercup's, my Whim for Bloom-
Because, we're Orchard sprung-
But, were I Britain born,
I'd Daisies spurn-
None but the Nut-October fit-
Because, through dropping it,
The Seasons flit-I'm taught-
Without the Snow's Tableau
Winter, were lie-to me-
Because I see-New Englandly-
The Queen, discerns like me-
Provincially-

The name-of it-is "Autumn"

656

The name-of it-is "Autumn"-
The hue-of it-is Blood-
An Artery-upon the Hill-
A Vein-along the Road-

Great Globules-in the Alleys-
And Oh, the Shower of Stain-
When Winds-upset the Basin-
And spill the Scarlet Rain-

It sprinkles Bonnets-far below-
It gathers ruddy PoolsThen-
eddies like a Rose-away-
Upon Vermilion Wheels-

The Mountain sat upon the Plain

975

The Mountain sat upon the Plain
In his tremendous Chair-
His observation omnifold,
His inquest, everywhere-

The Seasons played around his knees
Like Children round a sire-
Grandfather of the Days is He
Of Dawn, the Ancestor-

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-

Spring is the Period

844

Spring is the Period
Express from God.
Among the other seasons
Himself abide,

But during March and April
None stir abroad
Without a cordial interview
With God.

South Winds jostle them

86

South Winds jostle them-
Bumblebees comeHover-
hesitate-
Drink, and are gone-


Butterflies pause
On their passage CashmereI-
softly plucking,
Present them here!

Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair!

64

Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere—
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock's purple Train
Feather by feather—on the plain
Fritters itself away!


The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year's sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees—march—one by one—
In murmuring platoon!


The Robins stand as thick today
As flakes of snow stood yesterday—
On fence—and Roof—and Twig!
The Orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover - Don the Sun!
Revisiting the Bog!


Without Commander! Countless! Still!
The Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas—
Or what Circassian Land?

She hideth Her the last

557

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
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep-of the Bee-

Noon—is the Hinge of Day

931

Noon—is the Hinge of Day—
Evening—the Tissue Door—
Morning—the East compelling the sill
Till all the World is ajar—

New feet within my garden go

99

New feet within my garden go-
New fingers stir the sod-
A Troubadour upon the Elm
Betrays the solitude.

New children play upon the green-
New Weary sleep below-
And still the pensive Spring returns-
And still the punctual snow!

My Garden—like the Beach

484

My Garden—like the Beach—
Denotes there be—a Sea—
That's Summer—
Such as These—the Pearls
She fetches—such as Me

Morning—is the place for Dew

197

Morning—is the place for Dew—
Corn—is made at Noon—
After dinner light—for flowers—
Dukes—for Setting Sun!

Like Some Old fashioned Miracle

302

Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
When Summertime is done-
Seems Summer's Recollection
And the Affairs of June

As infinite Tradition
As Cinderella's Bays-
Or Little John-of Lincoln Green-
Or Blue Beard's Galleries-

Her Bees have a fictitious Hum-
Her Blossoms, like a Dream-
Elate us-till we almost weep-
So plausible-they seem-

Her Memories like Strains-Review-
When Orchestra is dumb-
The Violin in Baize replaced-
And Ear-and Heaven-numb-

I know a place where summer strives

I know a place where summer strives
With such a practised frost,
She each year leads her daisies back,
Recording briefly, 'Lost.'


But when the south wind stirs the pools
And struggles in the lanes,
Her heart misgives her for her vow,
And she pours soft refrains


Into the lap of adamant,
And spices, and the dew,
That stiffens quietly to quartz
Upon her amber shoe.

Frequently the wood are pink

6

Frequently the wood are pink-
Frequently are brown.
Frequently the hills undress
Behind my native town.
Oft a head is crested
I was wont to see-
And as oft a cranny
Where it used to be-
And the Earth- they tell me-
On its Axis turned!
Wonderful Rotation!
By but twelve performed!

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!

Bee! I'm expecting you!

1035

Bee! I'm expecting you!
Was saying Yesterday
To Somebody you know
That you were due-

The Frogs got Home last Week-
Are settled, and at work-
Birds, mostly back-
The Clover warm and thick


You'll get my Letter by
The seventeenth; Reply
Or better, be with me-
Yours, Fly.

As imperceptibly as Grief

1540

As imperceptibly as Grief
The Summer lapsed away-
Too imperceptible at last
To seem like Perfidy-
A Quietness distilled
As Twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered Afternoon-
The Dusk drew earlier in-
The Morning foreign shone-
A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,
As Guest, that would be gone-
And thus, without a Wing
Or service of a Keel
Our Summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.

As if some little Arctic flower

180

As if some little Arctic flower
Upon the polar hem-
Went wandering down the Latitudes
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer-
To firmaments of sun-
To strange, bright crowds of flowers-
And birds, of foreign tongue!
I say, As if this little flower
To Eden, wandered in-
What then? Why nothing,
Only, your inference therefrom!

Always Mine!

839

Always Mine!
No more Vacation!
Term of Light this Day begun!
Failless as the fair rotation
Of the Seasons and the Sun.


Old the Grace, but new the Subjects-
Old, indeed, the East,
Yet upon His Purple Programme
Every Dawn, is first.