I hide myself within my flower,

Run round and round a Room—In search of Something—as it seemed—Then Cloudier become—And then—obscure with Fog—And then—be soldered downWithout disclosing what it be‘Twere blessed to have seen—

And Violets are done—When Bumblebees in solemn flightHave passed beyond the Sun—The hand that paused to gatherUpon this Summer’s dayWill idle lie—in Auburn—Then take my flowers—pray!

Her Bodice rose and fell—Her pretty speech—like drunken men—Did stagger pitiful—Her fingers fumbled at her work—Her needle would not go—What ailed so smart a little Maid—It puzzled me to know—Till opposite—I spied a cheekThat bore another Rose—Just opposite—Another speechThat like the Drunkard goes—A Vest that like her Bodice, danced—To the immortal tune—Till those two troubled—little…

May yet a transport be—Though God forbid it lift the lid—Unto its Ecstasy!A Diagram—of Rapture!A sixpence at a Show—With Holy Ghosts in Cages!The Universe would go!

A Sepulchre, between—Cross it, and overcome the Bee—Remain—’tis but a Rind.

A short relief to have the windWalk boldly up and knock –Diversion from the Dying ThemeTo hear the children play –But wrong the moreThat these could liveAnd this of ours must die.