From the fields today—
So tiptoed many a slipper
To Paradise away—
Oozed so in crimson bubbles
Day’s departing tide—
Blooming—tripping—flow ing
Are ye then with God?
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Luck is not chance
Fortune’s expensive smileIs earnedThe Father of the MineIs that old-fashioned CoinWe spurned
March is the Month of Expectation.
The Persons of prognosticationAre coming now –We try to show becoming firmness –But pompous JoyBetrays us, as his first BetrothalBetrays a Boy.
It’s thoughts—and just One Heart—
Make frugal—Ones—Content—And two or three—for Company—Upon a Holiday—Crowded—as Sacrament—Books—when the Unit—Spare the Tenant—long eno’—A Picture—if it Care—Itself—a Gallery too rare—For needing more—Flowers—to keep the Eyes—from going awkward—When it snows—A Bird—if they—prefer—Though Winter fire—sing clear as Plover—To our—ear—A Landscape—not so greatTo suffocate the Eye—A Hill—perhaps—Perhaps—the profile of a MillTurned by the Wind—Tho’ such—are luxuries—It’s thoughts—and just…
It’s like the light, —
It’s like the bee, —A dateless melody.It’s like the woods,Private like breeze,Phraseless, yet it stirsThe proudest trees.It’s like the morning, —Best when it’s done, —The everlasting clocksChime noon.
Death is like the insect
Competent to kill it,But decoyed may be.Bait it with the balsam,Seek it with the saw,Baffle, if it cost youEverything you are.Then, if it have burrowedOut of reach of skill –Wring the tree and leave it,‘Tis the vermin’s will.
A little Madness in the Spring
But God be with the Clown –Who ponders this tremendous scene –This whole Experiment of Green –As if it were his own!