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The parting with the restFeels easy, as when Day lets goEntirely the WestThe Peaks, that lingered lastRemain in Her regretAs scarcely as the IodineUpon the Cataract.

The Thought to be alive—Anonymous Delight to know—And Madder—to conceive—Consoles a Woe so monstrousThat did it tear all Day,Without an instant’s Respite—‘Twould look too far—to Die—

That feels to her—like Sacrament—She’s busy—with an altered Care—As just apprenticed to the Air—She’s tearful—if she weep at all—For blissful Causes—Most of allThat Heaven permit so meek as her—To such a Fate—to Minister.

Fingers denied the plucking,Patient till paradise.To such, if they should whisperOf morning and the moor,They bear no other errand,And I, no other prayer.

The simple news that Nature told,With tender majestyHer message is committedTo hands I cannot see;For love of her, sweet countrymen,Judge tenderly of me!

‘Tis first—I lock the Door—And push it with my fingers—next—For transport it be sure—And then I go the furthest offTo counteract a knock—Then draw my little Letter forthAnd slowly pick the lock—Then—glancing narrow, at the Wall—And narrow at the floorFor firm Conviction of a MouseNot exorcised before—Peruse how infinite I amTo no one that You—know—And…