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The feeblest of the waywardest.Her admonition mildIn forest and the hillBy traveller be heard,Restraining rampant squirrelOr too impetuous bird.How fair her conversationA summer afternoon,Her household her assembly;And when the sun go down,Her voice among the aislesIncite the timid prayerOf the minutest cricket,The most unworthy flower.When all the children sleep,She turns as long awayAs will suffice…

Sees every Man a King—And Poverty of MonarchyIs an interior thing—No Man deposeWhom Fate Ordain—And Who can add a CrownTo Him who doth continualConspire against His Own

Toward which the forces creepPast which forces retrogradeIf it come in sleepTo suspend the BreathIs the most we canIgnorant is it Life or DeathNicely balancing.Let an instant pushOr an Atom pressOr a Circle hesitateIn CircumferenceIt—may jolt the HandThat adjusts the HairThat secures EternityFrom presenting—Here—

At Bases of the Trees—The far Theatricals of DayExhibiting—to These—‘Twas Universe—that did applaud—While Chiefest—of the Crowd—Enabled by his Royal Dress—Myself distinguished God—

An Emigrant to beIn a Metropolis of HomesIs easy, possibly—The Habit of a Foreign SkyWe—difficult—acquireAs Children, who remain in FaceThe more their Feet retire.

But let a splinter swerve,‘T were easier for youTo put the water backWhen floods have slit the hills,And scooped a turnpike for themselves,And blotted out the mills!