The Winds did buy it of the Woods—
They—sold it unto me
It was a gentle price—
The poorest—could afford—
It was within the frugal purse
Of Beggar—or of Bird—
Of small and spicy Yards—
In hue—a mellow Dun—
Of Sunshine—and of Sere—Composed—
But, principally—of Sun—
The Wind—unrolled it fast—
And spread it on the Ground—
Upholsterer of the Pines—is He—
Upholsterer—of the Pond—
Whose table once aGuest but notThe second time is set.Whose crumbs the crows inspectAnd with ironic cawFlap past it to the Farmer’s Corn–Men eat of it and die.
What rosy faceHas lost a blush today?I found her—’pleiad’—in the woodsAnd bore her safe away.Robins, in the traditionDid cover such with leaves,But which the cheek—And which the pallMy scrutiny deceives.
And bear to all my friends,Drinking to her no more astir,By beck, or burn, or moor!
I heard the Buckle snap—And turned away, imperial,My Lifetime folding up—Deliberate, as a Duke would doA Kingdom’s Title Deed—Henceforth, a Dedicated sort—A Member of the Cloud.Yet not too far to come at call—And do the little ToilsThat make the Circuit of the Rest—And deal occasional smilesTo lives that stoop to notice mine—And kindly ask it…
When Certain it must die—‘Tis deemed a privilege to choose—‘Twas Major Andre’s Way—When Choice of Life—is past—There yet remains a LoveIts little Fate to stipulate—How small in those who live—The Miracle to teaseWith Bable of the styles—How ‘they are Dying mostly—now’—And Customs at ‘St. James’!
And then reluctant turn—My flowers raise their pretty lips—Then put their nightgowns on.As children caper when they wakeMerry that it is Morn—My flowers from a hundred cribsWill peep, and prance again.
