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But She Slept—Her Bed—a funneled Stone—With Nosegays at the Head and Foot—That Travellers—had thrown—Who went to thank Her—But She Slept—‘Twas Short—to cross the Sea—To look upon Her like—alive—But turning back—’twas slow—

Nor any coursers like a pageOf prancing poetry.This traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of toll;How frugal is the chariotThat bears a human soul!

Is the unknown peninsula.Beauty is nature’s fact.But witness for her land,And witness for her sea,The cricket is her utmostOf elegy to me.

Stealthy Cocoon, why hide you soWhat all the world suspect?An hour, and gay on every treeYour secret, perched in ecstasyDefies imprisonment!An hour in Chrysalis to pass,Then gay above receding grassA Butterfly to go!A moment to interrogate,Then wiser than a ‘Surrogate,’The Universe to know!

Its awful chamber open stands –Its Curtains blandly sweep –Abhorrent is the RestIn undulating RoomsWhose Amplitude no end invades –Whose Axis never comes.

Who influences Flowers—Till they are orderly as Busts—And Elegant—as Glass—Who visits in the Night—And just before the Sun—Concludes his glistening interview—Caresses—and is gone—But whom his fingers touched—And where his feet have run—And whatsoever Mouth be kissed—Is as it had not been—