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Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—Nay—Nature is Heaven—Nature is what we hear—The Bobolink—the Sea—Thunder—the Cricket—Nay—Nature is Harmony—Nature is what we know—Yet have no art to say—So impotent Our Wisdom isTo her Simplicity.

Is when the Cars have come—And we are waiting for the Coach—It seems as though the TimeIndignant—that the Joy was come—Did block the Gilded Hands—And would not let the Seconds by—But slowest instant—ends—The Pendulum begins to count—Like little Scholars—loud—The steps grow thicker—in the Hall—The Heart begins to crowd—Then I—my timid service done—Tho’ service ’twas, of…

I heard a Woman say‘Poor Child’—and something in her voiceConvicted me—of me—So long I fainted, to myselfIt seemed the common way,And Health, and Laughter, Curious things—To look at, like a Toy—To sometimes hear ‘Rich people’ buyAnd see the Parcel rolled—And carried, I supposed—to Heaven,For children, made of Gold—But not to touch, or wish for,Or think…

That flickered in the night—When it was dark enough to doWithout erasing sight—A quiet—Earthquake Style—Too subtle to suspectBy natures this side Naples—The North cannot detectThe Solemn—Torrid—Symbol—The lips that never lie—Whose hissing Corals part—and shut—And Cities—ooze away—

But You have enough—of those—I could bring You Odors from St. Domingo—Colors—from Vera Cruz—Berries of the Bahamas—have I—But this little BlazeFlickering to itself—in the Meadow—Suits Me—more than those—Never a Fellow matched this Topaz—And his Emerald Swing—Dower itself—for Bobadilo—Better—Could I bring?

I have an errand imminentTo an adjoining Zone –I should not care to stopMy Process is not longThe Wind could wait without the GateOr stroll the Town among.To ascertain the HouseAnd is the soul at HomeAnd hold the Wick of mine to itTo light, and then return –