Elate—a Bee—
Thou’rt neither—
Neither—thy capacity—
But, Blossom, were I,
I would rather be
Thy moment
Than a Bee’s Eternity—
Content of fading
Is enough for me—
Fade I unto Divinity—
And Dying—Lifetime—
Ample as the Eye—
Her least attention raise on me—
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We like March, his shoes are purple,
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,Makes he forest dry;Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,And begets her spot.Stands the sun so close and mightyThat our minds are hot.News is he of all the others;Bold it were to dieWith the blue-birds buccaneeringOn his British sky.
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In their Chapeaux of fire,Martial as she!Like her the Evenings stealPurple and CochinealAfter the Day!‘Departed’—both— ;they say!i.e. gathered away,Not found,Argues the Aster still—Reasons the DaffodilProfound!
A train went through a burial gate,
And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throatTill all the churchyard rang;And then adjusted his little notes,And bowed and sang again.Doubtless, he thought it meet of himTo say good-by to men.
692
No Hue of Afternoon—Upon the Village I perceivedFrom House to House ’twas Noon—The Dusk kept dropping—dropping—stillNo Dew upon the Grass—But only on my Forehead stopped—And wandered in my Face—My Feet kept drowsing—drowsing—stillMy fingers were awake—Yet why so little sound—MyselfUnto my Seeming—make?How well I knew the Light before—I could see it now—‘Tis Dying—I am doing—butI’m not…
Sometimes with the Heart
Scarcer once with the MightFew – love at all.
Before you thought of spring,
You see, God bless his suddenness,A fellow in the skiesOf independent hues,A little weather-worn,Inspiriting habilimentsOf indigo and brown.With specimens of song,As if for you to choose,Discretion in the interval,With gay delays he goesTo some superior treeWithout a single leaf,And shouts for joy to nobodyBut his seraphic self!