Because—Thee—
Sweet plea—
He pardoned me!
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Without the Loneliness—I’m so accustomed to my Fate—Perhaps the Other—Peace—Would interrupt the Dark—And crowd the little Room—Too scant—by Cubits—to containThe Sacrament—of Him—I am not used to Hope—It might intrude upon—Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place—Ordained to Suffering—It might be easierTo fail—with Land in Sight—Than gain—My Blue Peninsula—To perish—of Delight—
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Strawberries—grow—Over the fence—I could climb—if I tried, I know—Berries are nice!But—if I stained my Apron—God would certainly scold!Oh, dear,—I guess if He were a Boy—He’d—climb—if He could!
A light exists in spring
At any other period.When March is scarcely hereA color stands abroadOn solitary hillsThat science cannot overtake,But human naturefeels.It waits upon the lawn;It shows the furthest treeUpon the furthest slope we know;It almost speaks to me.Then, as horizons step,Or noons report away,Without the formula of sound,It passes, and we stay:A quality of lossAffecting our content,As trade…
They shut me up in Prose —
They put me in the Closet —Because they liked me ‘still’ —Still! Could themself have peeped —And seen my Brain — go round —They might as wise have lodged a BirdFor Treason — in the Pound —Himself has but to willAnd easy as a StarAbolish his Captivity —And laugh — No more have I —
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Whose maids upon remoter greenKeep their Seraphic May—And all day long, with dance and game,And gambol I may never name—Employ their holiday.Here to light measure, move the feetWhich walk no more the village street—Nor by the wood are found—Here are the birds that sought the sunWhen last year’s distaff idle hungAnd summer’s brows were bound.Ne’er…
31
When Summer days are flown!Thy music still, when WhipporwillAnd Oriole—are done!For thee to bloom, I’ll skip the tombAnd row my blossoms o’er!Pray gather me—Anemone—Thy flower—forevermore!