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Except it quiet bringOur little garden that we lostBack to the Lawn again.So spicy her Carnations nod—So drunken, reel her Bees—So silver steal a hundred flutesFrom out a hundred trees—That whoso sees this little flowerBy faith may clear beholdThe Bobolinks around the throneAnd Dandelions gold.

Runs evenly—and true—But let a Splinter swerve—‘Twere easier for You—To put a Current back—When Floods have slit the Hills—And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves—And trodden out the Mills—

Sailing silently,Ho! Pilot, ho!Knowest thou the shoreWhere no breakers roar—Where the storm is o’er?In the peaceful westMany the sails at rest—The anchors fast—Thither I pilot thee—Land Ho! Eternity!Ashore at last!

The Winds did buy it of the Woods—They—sold it unto meIt was a gentle price—The poorest—could afford—It was within the frugal purseOf Beggar—or of Bird—Of small and spicy Yards—In hue—a mellow Dun—Of Sunshine—and of Sere—Composed—But, principally—of Sun—The Wind—unrolled it fast—And spread it on the Ground—Upholsterer of the Pines—is He—Upholsterer—of the Pond—

Who own the ample sea—Or Brooches—when the Emperor—With Rubies—pelteth me—Or Gold—who am the Prince of Mines—Or Diamonds—when have IA Diadem to fit a Dom—Continual upon me—

And dancing softly to HimselfHis Yarn of Pearl–unwinds–He plies from Nought to Nought–In unsubstantial Trade–Supplants our Tapestries with His–In half the period–An Hour to rear supremeHis Continents of Light–Then dangle from the Housewife’s Broom–His Boundaries–forgot–