Sometimes with the Heart

They tell it to the Hills—The Hills just tell the Orchards—And they—the Daffodils!A Bird—by chance—that goes that way—Soft overhears the whole—If I should bribe the little Bird—Who knows but she would tell?I think I won’t—however—It’s finer—not to know—If Summer were an Axiom—What sorcery had Snow?So keep your secret—Father!I would not—if I could,Know what the Sapphire…

Then disappearedAs Birds before achievingA Latitude.Our Retrospection of ThemA fixed Delight,But our AnticipationA Dice—a Doubt—

And of ‘Truth’ until it proclaimed him a Liar –The Truth never flaunted a Sign –Simplicity fled from his counterfeit presenceAs Gold the Pyrites would shun –What confusion would cover the innocent JesusTo meet so enabled a Man!

A smile too few—a word too muchAnd far from Heaven as the Rest—The Soul so close on Paradise—What if the Bird from journey far—Confused by Sweets—as Mortals—are—Forget the secret of His wingAnd perish—but a Bough between—Oh, Groping feet—Oh Phantom Queen!

Whose maids upon remoter greenKeep their Seraphic May—And all day long, with dance and game,And gambol I may never name—Employ their holiday.Here to light measure, move the feetWhich walk no more the village street—Nor by the wood are found—Here are the birds that sought the sunWhen last year’s distaff idle hungAnd summer’s brows were bound.Ne’er…

An Emigrant to beIn a Metropolis of HomesIs easy, possibly—The Habit of a Foreign SkyWe—difficult—acquireAs Children, who remain in FaceThe more their Feet retire.