‘Tis frequently the Way—Surpasses all that rose before—For utter Jubilee—As Nature did not care—And piled her Blossoms on—And further to parade a JoyHer Victim stared upon—The Birds declaim their Tunes—Pronouncing every wordLike Hammers—Did they know they fellLike Litanies of Lead—On here and there—a creature—They’d modify the GleeTo fit some Crucifixal Clef—Some Key of Calvary—
What rosy faceHas lost a blush today?I found her—’pleiad’—in the woodsAnd bore her safe away.Robins, in the traditionDid cover such with leaves,But which the cheek—And which the pallMy scrutiny deceives.
How ample to relyIn Tumult—or Extremity—How good the CertaintyThat Lever cannot pry—And Wedge cannot divideConviction—That Granitic Base—Though None be on our Side—Suffice Us—for a Crowd—Ourself—and Rectitude—And that Assembly—not far offFrom furthest Spirit—God—
Just the place I stood—At a Window facing West—Roughest Air—was good—Not a Sleet could bite me—Not a frost could cool—Hope it was that kept me warm—Not Merino shawl—When I feared—I recollectJust the Day it was—Worlds were lying out to Sun—Yet how Nature froze—Icicles upon my soulPrickled Blue and Cool—Bird went praising everywhere—Only Me—was still—And the…
Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee—Of these no Elegy.Some things that stay there be—Grief—Hills—Eternity&mda sh;Nor this behooveth me.There are that resting, rise.Can I expound the skies?How still the Riddle lies!