March is the Month of Expectation.

Which in the valleys lie?Some shook their heads, and others smiled—And no one made reply.Perhaps they did not hear, I said,I will inquire again—Whose are the beds—the tiny bedsSo thick upon the plain?‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest—A little further on—Nearest the door—to wake the Ist—Little Leontoden.‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster—Anemone, and Bell—Bartsia, in the blanket…

I came upon a Worm—Pink, lank and warm—But as he was a wormAnd worms presumeNot quite with him at home—Secured him by a stringTo something neighboringAnd went along.A Trifle afterwardA thing occurredI’d not believe it if I heardBut state with creeping blood—A snake with mottles rareSurveyed my chamber floorIn feature as the worm beforeBut ringed…

And in the Handsome SkiesI shall not feel at Home—I know—I don’t like Paradise—Because it’s Sunday—all the time—And Recess—never comes—And Eden’ll be so lonesomeBright Wednesday Afternoons—If God could make a visit—Or ever took a Nap—So not to see us—but they sayHimself—a TelescopePerennial beholds us—Myself would run awayFrom Him—and Holy Ghost—and All—But there’s the ‘Judgement Day’!

Superior Glory beBut that Cloud and its AuxiliariesAre forever lost to meHad I but further scannedHad I secured the GlowIn an Hermetic MemoryIt had availed me now.Never to pass the AngelWith a glance and a BowTill I am firm in HeavenIs my intention now.

Of ‘Potose,’ and the mines!Reverently, to the HungryOf your viands, and your wines!Cautious, hint to any CaptiveYou have passed enfranchised feet!Anecdotes of air in DungeonsHave sometimes proved deadly sweet!

Four—have recovered the Land—Forty—gone down together—Into the boiling Sand—Ring—for the Scant Salvation—Toll—for the bonnie Souls—Neighbor—and friend—and Bridegroom—Spinning upon the Shoals—How they will tell the Story—When Winter shake the Door—Till the Children urge—But the Forty—Did they—come back no more?Then a softness—suffuse the Story—And a silence—the Teller’s eye—And the Children—no further question—And only the Sea—reply—