MY cocoon tightens, colors tease,

Before the skaters go,Or any check at nightfallIs tarnished by the snow—Before the fields have finished,Before the Christmas tree,Wonder upon wonderWill arrive to me!What we touch the hems ofOn a summer’s day—What is only walkingJust a bridge away—That which sings so—speaks so—When there’s no one here—Will the frock I wept inAnswer me to wear?

The Hills to meet him rose!On his side, what Transaction!On their side, what Repose!Deeper and deeper grew the stainUpon the window pane—Thicker and thicker stood the feetUntil the TyrianWas crowded dense with Armies—So gay, so Brigadier—That I felt martial stirringsWho once the Cockade wore—Charged from my chimney corner—But Nobody was there!

Some that never layMake their first Repose this WinterI admonish TheeBlanket Wealthier the NeighborWe so new bestowThan thine acclimated CreatureWilt Thou, Austere Snow?

For Earths, grow thick asBerries, in my native town —My Basked holds — just — Firmaments —Those — dangle easy — on my arm,But smaller bundles — Cram.

A Threadless WayI pushed Mechanic feet—To stop—or perish—or advance—Alike indifferent—If end I gainedIt ends beyondIndefinite disclosed—I shut my eyes—and groped as well‘Twas lighter—to be Blind—

When it began, or if there wereA day when it was not.It has no future but itself,Its infinite realms containIts past, enlightened to perceiveNew periods of pain.

The sweet derision of the crow,And Glee’s advancing sound.In fear thou comest –Thou shalt go at such a gait of joyThat man anew embark to liveUpon the depth of thee.

I’m not ashamed of thatChrist—stooped until He touched the Grave—Do those at SacramentCommemorative DishonorOr love annealed of loveUntil it bend as low as DeathRedignified, above?

Till some odd afternoonThe Alps neglect their CurtainsAnd we look farther on!Italy stands the other side!While like a guard between —The solemn Alps —The siren AlpsForever intervene!

Gain—Satiety—But Satiety—ConvictionOf NecessityOf an Austere trait in Pleasure—Good, without alarmIs a too established Fortune—Danger—deepens Sum—

Poets—ended—Silver—perished—with her Tongue—Not on Record—bubbled other,Flute—or Woman—So divine—Not unto its Summer—MorningRobin—uttered Half the Tune—Gushed too free for the Adoring—From the Anglo-Florentine—Late—the Praise—‘Tis dull—conferringOn the Head too High to Crown—Diadem—or Ducal Showing—Be its Grave—sufficient sign—Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—Suffocate—with easy woe—What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—Put Her down—in Italy?

Fond, and late—We speculated fair, on every subject, but the Grave—Of ours, none affair—We handled Destinies, as cool—As we—Disposers—be—And God, a Quiet PartyTo our Authority—But fondest, dwelt upon OurselfAs we eventual—be—When Girls to Women, softly raisedWe—occupy—Degree—We parted with a contractTo cherish, and to writeBut Heaven made both, impossibleBefore another night.