That—was in the Green—
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As Daisies now to be seen—
Looking back is best that is left
Or if it be—before—
Retrospection is Prospect’s half,
Sometimes, almost more.
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46
I was not called—Death did not notice me.I bring my Rose.I plight again,By every sainted Bee—By Daisy called from hillside—by Bobolink from lane.Blossom and I—Her oath, and mine—Will surely come again.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,
The brain has corridors surpassingMaterial place.Far safer, of a midnight meetingExternal ghost,Than an interior confrontingThat whiter host.Far safer through an Abbey gallop,The stones achase,Than, moonless, one’s own self encounterIn lonesome place.Ourself, behind ourself concealed,Should startle most;Assassin, hid in our apartment,Be horror’s least.The prudent carries a revolver,He bolts the door,O’erlooking a superior spectreMore near.
The Butterfly in honored Dust
But none will pass the CatacombSo chastened as the Fly –
442
It tried—to be a Rose—And failed—and all the Summer laughed—But just before the SnowsThere rose a Purple Creature—That ravished all the Hill—And Summer hid her Forehead—And Mockery—was still—The Frosts were her condition—The Tyrian would not comeUntil the North—invoke it—Creator—Shall I—bloom?
19
Upon a common summer’s morn—A flask of Dew—A Bee or two—A Breeze—a caper in the trees—And I’m a Rose!
759
Bestowed Himself to BallsAs One who for a further LifeHad not a further Use—Invited Death—with bold attempt—But Death was Coy of HimAs Other Men, were Coy of Death—To Him—to live—was Doom—His Comrades, shifted like the FlakesWhen Gusts reverse the Snow—But He—was left alive BecauseOf Greediness to die—