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Yet Both so well knew meThey startled, like ExecutorsOf My identity.Yet Neither told—that I could learn—My Secret as secureAs Herschel’s private interestOr Mercury’s affair—

And is the first, to rise—Her Night doth hardly recompenseThe Closing of Her eyes—She doth Her Purple Work—And putteth Her awayIn low Apartments in the Sod –As worthily as We.To imitate her lifeAs impotent would beAs make of Our imperfect Mints,The Julep—of the Bee—

It’s only fainter–by degrees–And then–it’s out of sight–A darker Ribbon–for a Day–A Crape upon the Hat–And then the pretty sunshine comes–And helps us to forget–The absent–mystic–creature–That but for love of us–Had gone to sleep–that soundest time–Without the weariness–

I’ve heard my Father tell—And Owls do build in Oaks—So here’s an Amber Sill—That slanted in my Path—When going to the Barn—And if it serve You for a House—Itself is not in vain—About the price—’tis small—I only ask a TuneAt Midnight—Let the Owl selectHis favorite Refrain.

And everything that has an InnCloses the shutter and goes in –How pompous the Wind must feel NoonsStepping to incorporeal TunesCorrecting errors of the skyAnd clarifying sceneryHow mighty the Wind must feel MornsEncamping on a thousand dawnsEspousing each and spurning allThen soaring to his Temple Tall –

Was laughter and ability and sighing,And frocks and curls;This passive place a summer’s nimble mansion,Where bloom and beesFulfilled their oriental circuit,Then ceased like these.