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But I could never sell—If you would like to borrow,Until the DaffodilUnties her yellow BonnetBeneath the village door,Until the Bees, from Clover rowsTheir Hock, and Sherry, draw,Why, I will lend until just then,But not an hour more!

In this cup of mine.Sip old Frankfort airFrom my brown Cigar.

I boldly answered; entered thenMy residence withinA rapid, footless guest,To offer whom a chairWere as impossible as handA sofa to the air.No bone had he to bind him,His speech was like the pushOf numerous humming-birds at onceFrom a superior bush.His countenance a billow,His fingers, if he pass,Let go a music, as of tunesBlown tremulous in…

The Soul has special times—When Dimness—looks the Oddity—Distinctness—easy—se ems—The Shapes we buried, dwell about,Familiar, in the Rooms—Untarnished by the Sepulchre,The Mouldering Playmate comes—In just the Jacket that he wore—Long buttoned in the MoldSince we—old mornings, Children—played—Divided—by a world—The Grave yields back her Robberies—The Years, our pilfered Things—Bright Knots of ApparitionsSalute us, with their wings—As we—it…

‘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—

A dim capacity for wingsDegrades the dress I wear.A power of butterfly must beThe aptitude to fly,Meadows of majesty concedesAnd easy sweeps of sky.So I must baffle at the hintAnd cipher at the sign,And make much blunder, if at lastI take the clew divine.