Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so—
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there—
Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go—
And later, in August it may be—
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!
Did I sing—too loud?But—I can say a little ‘Minor’Timid as a Bird!Wouldn’t the Angels try me—Just—once—more—Just—see—if I troubled them—But don’t—shut the door!Oh, if I—were the GentlemanIn the ‘White Robe’—And they—were the little Hand—that knocked—Could—I—forbid?
Meek my Vive le roi,Fold a tiny courtierIn thine Ermine, Sir,There to rest reveringTill the pageant by,I can murmur broken,Master, It was I—
A sweep of Gray—Some scarlet patches on the way,Compose an Evening Sky—A little purple—slipped between—Some Ruby Trousers hurried on—A Wave of Gold—A Bank of Day—This just makes out the Morning Sky.
The stars about my head I felt,About my feet the sea.I knew not but the nextWould be my final inch,–This gave me that precarious gaitSome call experience.
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,And made the gables laugh.A few went out to help the brook,That went to help the sea.Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,What necklaces could be!The dust replaced in hoisted roaThe birds jocoser sung;The sunshine threw his hat away,The orchards spangles hung.The breezes brought dejectedAnd bathed them in the glee;The East…
Fond, and late—We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave—Of ours, none affair—We handled Destinies, as cool—As we—Disposers—be—And God, a Quiet PartyTo our Authority—But fondest, dwelt upon OurselfAs we eventual—be—When Girls to Women, softly raisedWe—occupy—Degree—We parted with a contractTo cherish, and to writeBut Heaven made both, impossibleBefore another night.
