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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 –

As cool to speech—as stone—As numb to RevelationAs if my Trade were Bone—As far from time—as History—As near yourself—Today—As Children, to the Rainbow’s scarf—Or Sunset’s Yellow playTo eyelids in the Sepulchre—How dumb the Dancer lies—While Color’s Revelations break—And blaze—the Butterflies!

Express from God.Among the other seasonsHimself abide,But during March and AprilNone stir abroadWithout a cordial interviewWith God.

At last, the lamps upon thy sideThe rest of Life to see!Past Midnight! Past the Morning Star!Past Sunrise!Ah, What leagues there wereBetween our feet, and Day!

Land—by the Oceans passed.Transport—by throe—Peace—by its battles told—Love, by Memorial Mold—Birds, by the Snow.

I looked for you before.Put down your hat—You must have walked—How out of breath you are!Dear March, how are you?And the rest?Did you leave Nature well?Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,I have so much to tell!I got your letter, and the bird’s;The maples never knewThat you were coming,—I declare,How red their faces grew!But, March,…