I.
MOTHER NATURE.
Nature, the gentlest mother,Impatient of no child,The feeblest or the waywardest, --Her admonition mild
In forest and the hillBy traveller is heard,Restraining rampant squirrelOr too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,A summer afternoon, --Her household, her assembly;And when the sun goes down
Her voice among the aislesIncites the timid prayerOf the minutest cricket,The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleepShe turns as long awayAs will suffice to light her lamps;Then, bending from the sky
With infinite affectionAnd infiniter care,Her golden finger on her lip,Wills silence everywhere.
II.
OUT OF THE MORNING.
Will there really be a morning?Is there such a thing as day?Could I see it from the mountainsIf I were as tall as they?
Has it feet like water-lilies?Has it feathers like a bird?Is it brought from famous countriesOf which I have never heard?
Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!Oh, some wise man from the skies!Please to tell a little pilgrimWhere the place called morning lies!
III.
At half-past three a single birdUnto a silent skyPropounded but a single termOf cautious melody.
At half-past four, experimentHad subjugated test,And lo! her silver principleSupplanted all the rest.
At half-past seven, elementNor implement was seen,And place was where the presence was,Circumference between.
IV.
DAY'S PARLOR.
The day came slow, till five o'clock,Then sprang before the hillsLike hindered rubies, or the lightA sudden musket spills.
The purple could not keep the east,The sunrise shook from fold,Like breadths of topaz, packed a night,The lady just unrolled.
The happy winds their timbrels took;The birds, in docile rows,Arranged themselves around their prince(The wind is prince of those).
The orchard sparkled like a Jew, --How mighty 't was, to stayA guest in this stupendous place,The parlor of the day!
V.
THE SUN'S WOOING.
The sun just touched the morning;The morning, happy thing,Supposed that he had come to dwell,And life would be all spring.
She felt herself supremer, --A raised, ethereal thing;Henceforth for her what holiday!Meanwhile, her wheeling king
Trailed slow along the orchardsHis haughty, spangled hems,Leaving a new necessity, --The want of diadems!
The morning fluttered, staggered,Felt feebly for her crown, --Her unanointed foreheadHenceforth her only one.
VI.
THE ROBIN.
The robin is the oneThat interrupts the mornWith hurried, few, express reportsWhen March is scarcely on.
The robin is the oneThat overflows the noonWith her cherubic quantity,An April but begun.
The robin is the oneThat speechless from her nestSubmits that home and certaintyAnd sanctity are best.
VII.
THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY.
From cocoon forth a butterflyAs lady from her doorEmerged -- a summer afternoon --Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,Except to stray abroadOn miscellaneous enterpriseThe clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seenContracting in a fieldWhere men made hay, then struggling hardWith an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,To Nowhere seemed to goIn purposeless circumference,As 't were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,And flower that zealous blew,This audience of idlenessDisdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,And men that made the hay,And afternoon, and butterfly,Extinguished in its sea.
VIII.
THE BLUEBIRD.
Before you thought of spring,Except as a surmise,You see, God bless his suddenness,A fellow in the skiesOf independent hues,A little weather-worn,Inspiriting habilimentsOf indigo and brown.
With specimens of song,As if for you to choose,Discretion in the interval,With gay delays he goesTo some superior treeWithout a single leaf,And shouts for joy to nobodyBut his seraphic self!
IX.
APRIL.
An altered look about the hills;A Tyrian light the village fills;A wider sunrise in the dawn;A deeper twilight on the lawn;A print of a vermilion foot;A purple finger on the slope;A flippant fly upon the pane;A spider at his trade again;An added strut in chanticleer;A flower expected everywhere;An axe shrill singing in the woods;Fern-odors on untravelled roads, --All this, and more I cannot tell,A furtive look you know as well,And Nicodemus' mysteryReceives its annual reply.
X.
THE SLEEPING FLOWERS.
"Whose are the little beds," I asked,"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?"
"'T is daisy in the shortest;A little farther on,Nearest the door to wake the first,Little leontodon.
"'T is iris, sir, and aster,Anemone and bell,Batschia in the blanket red,And chubby daffodil."
Meanwhile at many cradlesHer busy foot she plied,Humming the quaintest lullabyThat ever rocked a child.
"Hush! Epigea wakens! --The crocus stirs her lids,Rhodora's cheek is crimson, --She's dreaming of the woods."
Then, turning from them, reverent,"Their bed-time 't is," she said;"The bumble-bees will wake themWhen April woods are red."
XI.
MY ROSE.
Pigmy seraphs gone astray,Velvet people from Vevay,Belles from some lost summer day,Bees' exclusive coterie.Paris could not lay the foldBelted down with emerald;Venice could not show a cheekOf a tint so lustrous meek.Never such an ambuscadeAs of brier and leaf displayedFor my little damask maid.I had rather wear her graceThan an earl's distinguished face;I had rather dwell like herThan be Duke of ExeterRoyalty enough for meTo subdue the bumble-bee!
XII.
THE ORIOLE'S SECRET.
To hear an oriole singMay be a common thing,Or only a divine.
It is not of the birdWho sings the same, unheard,As unto crowd.
The fashion of the earAttireth that it hearIn dun or fair.
So whether it be rune,Or whether it be none,Is of within;
The "tune is in the tree,"The sceptic showeth me;"No, sir! In thee!"
XIII.
THE ORIOLE.
One of the ones that Midas touched,Who failed to touch us all,Was that confiding prodigal,The blissful oriole.
So drunk, he disavows itWith badinage divine;So dazzling, we mistake himFor an alighting mine.
A pleader, a dissembler,An epicure, a thief, --Betimes an oratorio,An ecstasy in chief;
The Jesuit of orchards,He cheats as he enchantsOf an entire attarFor his decamping wants.
The splendor of a Burmah,The meteor of birds,Departing like a pageantOf ballads and of bards.
I never thought that Jason soughtFor any golden fleece;But then I am a rural man,With thoughts that make for peace.
But if there were a Jason,Tradition suffer meBehold his lost emolumentUpon the apple-tree.
XIV.
IN SHADOW.
I dreaded that first robin so,But he is mastered now,And I 'm accustomed to him grown, --He hurts a little, though.
I thought if I could only liveTill that first shout got by,Not all pianos in the woodsHad power to mangle me.
I dared not meet the daffodils,For fear their yellow gownWould pierce me with a fashionSo foreign to my own.
I wished the grass would hurry,So when 't was time to see,He 'd be too tall, the tallest oneCould stretch to look at me.
I could not bear the bees should come,I wished they 'd stay awayIn those dim countries where they go:What word had they for me?
They 're here, though; not a creature failed,No blossom stayed awayIn gentle deference to me,The Queen of Calvary.
Each one salutes me as he goes,And I my childish plumesLift, in bereaved acknowledgmentOf their unthinking drums.
XV.
THE HUMMING-BIRD.
A route of evanescenceWith a revolving wheel;A resonance of emerald,A rush of cochineal;And every blossom on the bushAdjusts its tumbled head, --The mail from Tunis, probably,An easy morning's ride.
XVI.
SECRETS.
The skies can't keep their secret!They tell it to the hills --The hills just tell the orchards --And they the daffodils!
A bird, by chance, that goes that waySoft overheard 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 fellows do,In your new-fashioned world!
XVII.
Who robbed the woods,The trusting woods?The unsuspecting treesBrought out their burrs and mossesHis fantasy to please.He scanned their trinkets, curious,He grasped, he bore away.What will the solemn hemlock,What will the fir-tree say?
XVIII.
TWO VOYAGERS.
Two butterflies went out at noonAnd waltzed above a stream,Then stepped straight through the firmamentAnd rested on a beam;
And then together bore awayUpon a shining sea, --Though never yet, in any port,Their coming mentioned be.
If spoken by the distant bird,If met in ether seaBy frigate or by merchantman,Report was not to me.
XIX.
BY THE SEA.
I started early, took my dog,And visited the sea;The mermaids in the basementCame out to look at me,
And frigates in the upper floorExtended hempen hands,Presuming me to be a mouseAground, upon the sands.
But no man moved me till the tideWent past my simple shoe,And past my apron and my belt,And past my bodice too,
And made as he would eat me upAs wholly as a dewUpon a dandelion's sleeve --And then I started too.
And he -- he followed close behind;I felt his silver heelUpon my ankle, -- then my shoesWould overflow with pearl.
Until we met the solid town,No man he seemed to know;And bowing with a mighty lookAt me, the sea withdrew.
XX.
OLD-FASHIONED.
Arcturus is his other name, --I'd rather call him star!It's so unkind of scienceTo go and interfere!
I pull a flower from the woods, --A monster with a glassComputes the stamens in a breath,And has her in a class.
Whereas I took the butterflyAforetime in my hat,He sits erect in cabinets,The clover-bells forgot.
What once was heaven, is zenith now.Where I proposed to goWhen time's brief masquerade was done,Is mapped, and charted too!
What if the poles should frisk aboutAnd stand upon their heads!I hope I 'm ready for the worst,Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the kingdom of Heaven 's changed!I hope the children thereWon't be new-fashioned when I come,And laugh at me, and stare!
I hope the father in the skiesWill lift his little girl, --Old-fashioned, naughty, everything, --Over the stile of pearl!
XXI.
A TEMPEST.
An awful tempest mashed the air,The clouds were gaunt and few;A black, as of a spectre's cloak,Hid heaven and earth from view.
The creatures chuckled on the roofsAnd whistled in the air,And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth.And swung their frenzied hair.
The morning lit, the birds arose;The monster's faded eyesTurned slowly to his native coast,And peace was Paradise!
XXII.
THE SEA.
An everywhere of silver,With ropes of sandTo keep it from effacingThe track called land.
XXIII.
IN THE GARDEN.
A bird came down the walk:He did not know I saw;He bit an angle-worm in halvesAnd ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dewFrom a convenient grass,And then hopped sidewise to the wallTo let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyesThat hurried all abroad, --They looked like frightened beads, I thought;He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger; cautious,I offered him a crumb,And he unrolled his feathersAnd rowed him softer home
Than oars divide the ocean,Too silver for a seam,Or butterflies, off banks of noon,Leap, splashless, as they swim.
XXIV.
THE SNAKE.
A narrow fellow in the grassOccasionally rides;You may have met him, -- did you not,His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,A spotted shaft is seen;And then it closes at your feetAnd opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,A floor too cool for corn.Yet when a child, and barefoot,I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lashUnbraiding in the sun, --When, stooping to secure it,It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's peopleI know, and they know me;I feel for them a transportOf cordiality;
But never met this fellow,Attended or alone,Without a tighter breathing,And zero at the bone.
XXV.
THE MUSHROOM.
The mushroom is the elf of plants,At evening it is not;At morning in a truffled hutIt stops upon a spot
As if it tarried always;And yet its whole careerIs shorter than a snake's delay,And fleeter than a tare.
'T is vegetation's juggler,The germ of alibi;Doth like a bubble antedate,And like a bubble hie.
I feel as if the grass were pleasedTo have it intermit;The surreptitious scionOf summer's circumspect.
Had nature any outcast face,Could she a son contemn,Had nature an Iscariot,That mushroom, -- it is him.
XXVI.
THE STORM.
There came a wind like a bugle;It quivered through the grass,And a green chill upon the heatSo ominous did passWe barred the windows and the doorsAs from an emerald ghost;The doom's electric moccasonThat very instant passed.On a strange mob of panting trees,And fences fled away,And rivers where the houses ranThe living looked that day.The bell within the steeple wildThe flying tidings whirled.How much can comeAnd much can go,And yet abide the world!
XXVII.
THE SPIDER.
A spider sewed at nightWithout a lightUpon an arc of white.If ruff it was of dameOr shroud of gnome,Himself, himself inform.Of immortalityHis strategyWas physiognomy.
XXVIII.
I know a place where summer strivesWith such a practised frost,She each year leads her daisies back,Recording briefly, "Lost."
But when the south wind stirs the poolsAnd struggles in the lanes,Her heart misgives her for her vow,And she pours soft refrains
Into the lap of adamant,And spices, and the dew,That stiffens quietly to quartz,Upon her amber shoe.
XXIX.
The one that could repeat the summer dayWere greater than itself, though heMinutest of mankind might be.And who could reproduce the sun,At period of going down --The lingering and the stain, I mean --When Orient has been outgrown,And Occident becomes unknown,His name remain.
XXX.
THE WIND'S VISIT.
The wind tapped like a tired man,And like a host, "Come in,"I boldly answered; entered thenMy residence within
A rapid, footless guest,To offer whom a chairWere as impossible as handA sofa to the air.
No bone had he to bind him,His speech was like the pushOf numerous humming-birds at onceFrom a superior bush.
His countenance a billow,His fingers, if he pass,Let go a music, as of tunesBlown tremulous in glass.
He visited, still flitting;Then, like a timid man,Again he tapped -- 't was flurriedly --And I became alone.
XXXI.
Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue;Saves she all of that for sunsets, -- Prodigal of blue,
Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affordsOnly scantly and selectly, Like a lover's words.
XXXII.
GOSSIP.
The leaves, like women, interchange Sagacious confidence;Somewhat of nods, and somewhat of Portentous inference,
The parties in both cases Enjoining secrecy, --Inviolable compact To notoriety.
XXXIII.
SIMPLICITY.
How happy is the little stoneThat rambles in the road alone,And doesn't care about careers,And exigencies never fears;Whose coat of elemental brownA passing universe put on;And independent as the sun,Associates or glows alone,Fulfilling absolute decreeIn casual simplicity.
XXXIV.
STORM.
It sounded as if the streets were running,And then the streets stood still.Eclipse was all we could see at the window,And awe was all we could feel.
By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,To see if time was there.Nature was in her beryl apron,Mixing fresher air.
XXXV.
THE RAT.
The rat is the concisest tenant.He pays no rent, --Repudiates the obligation,On schemes intent.
Balking our witTo sound or circumvent,Hate cannot harmA foe so reticent.
Neither decreeProhibits him,Lawful asEquilibrium.
XXXVI.
Frequently the woods are pink,Frequently are brown;Frequently the hills undressBehind my native town.
Oft a head is crestedI was wont to see,And as oft a crannyWhere it used to be.
And the earth, they tell me,On its axis turned, --Wonderful rotationBy but twelve performed!
XXXVII.
A THUNDER-STORM.
The wind begun to rock the grassWith threatening tunes and low, --He flung a menace at the earth,A menace at the sky.
The leaves unhooked themselves from treesAnd started all abroad;The dust did scoop itself like handsAnd throw away the road.
The wagons quickened on the streets,The thunder hurried slow;The lightning showed a yellow beak,And then a livid claw.
The birds put up the bars to nests,The cattle fled to barns;There came one drop of giant rain,And then, as if the hands
That held the dams had parted hold,The waters wrecked the sky,But overlooked my father's house,Just quartering a tree.
XXXVIII.
WITH FLOWERS.
South winds jostle them,Bumblebees come,Hover, hesitate,Drink, and are gone.
Butterflies pauseOn their passage Cashmere;I, softly plucking,Present them here!
XXXIX.
SUNSET.
Where ships of purple gently tossOn seas of daffodil,Fantastic sailors mingle,And then -- the wharf is still.
XL.
She sweeps with many-colored brooms,And leaves the shreds behind;Oh, housewife in the evening west,Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,You dropped an amber thread;And now you 've littered all the EastWith duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,And still the aprons fly,Till brooms fade softly into stars --And then I come away.
XLI.
Like mighty footlights burned the redAt bases of the trees, --The far theatricals of dayExhibiting to these.
'T was universe that did applaudWhile, chiefest of the crowd,Enabled by his royal dress,Myself distinguished God.
XLII.
PROBLEMS.
Bring me the sunset in a cup,Reckon the morning's flagons up, And say how many dew;Tell me how far the morning leaps,Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadths of blue!
Write me how many notes there beIn the new robin's ecstasy Among astonished boughs;How many trips the tortoise makes,How many cups the bee partakes, -- The debauchee of dews!
Also, who laid the rainbow's piers,Also, who leads the docile spheres By withes of supple blue?Whose fingers string the stalactite,Who counts the wampum of the night, To see that none is due?
Who built this little Alban houseAnd shut the windows down so close My spirit cannot see?Who 'll let me out some gala day,With implements to fly away, Passing pomposity?
XLIII.
THE JUGGLER OF DAY.
Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,Leaping like leopards to the sky,Then at the feet of the old horizonLaying her spotted face, to die;
Stooping as low as the otter's window,Touching the roof and tinting the barn,Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, --And the juggler of day is gone!
XLIV.
MY CRICKET.
Farther in summer than the birds,Pathetic from the grass,A minor nation celebratesIts unobtrusive mass.
No ordinance is seen,So gradual the grace,A pensive custom it becomes,Enlarging loneliness.
Antiquest felt at noonWhen August, burning low,Calls forth this spectral canticle,Repose to typify.
Remit as yet no grace,No furrow on the glow,Yet a druidic differenceEnhances nature now.
XLV.
As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away, --Too imperceptible, at last,To seem like perfidy.
A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature, spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.
The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone, --A courteous, yet harrowing grace,As guest who would be gone.
And thus, without a wing,Or service of a keel,Our summer made her light escapeInto the beautiful.
XLVI.
It can't be summer, -- that got through;It 's early yet for spring;There 's that long town of white to crossBefore the blackbirds sing.
It can't be dying, -- it's too rouge, --The dead shall go in white.So sunset shuts my question downWith clasps of chrysolite.
XLVII.
SUMMER'S OBSEQUIES.
The gentian weaves her fringes,The maple's loom is red.My departing blossomsObviate parade.
A brief, but patient illness,An hour to prepare;And one, below this morning,Is where the angels are.
It was a short procession, --The bobolink was there,An aged bee addressed us,And then we knelt in prayer.
We trust that she was willing, --We ask that we may be.Summer, sister, seraph,Let us go with thee!
In the name of the beeAnd of the butterflyAnd of the breeze, amen!
XLVIII.
FRINGED GENTIAN.
God made a little gentian;It tried to be a roseAnd failed, and all the summer laughed.But just before the snowsThere came a purple creatureThat ravished all the hill;And summer hid her forehead,And mockery was still.The frosts were her condition;The Tyrian would not comeUntil the North evoked it."Creator! shall I bloom?"
XLIX.
NOVEMBER.
Besides the autumn poets sing,A few prosaic daysA little this side of the snowAnd that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,A few ascetic eyes, --Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.
Still is the bustle in the brook,Sealed are the spicy valves;Mesmeric fingers softly touchThe eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,My sentiments to share.Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,Thy windy will to bear!
L.
THE SNOW.
It sifts from leaden sieves,It powders all the wood,It fills with alabaster woolThe wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even faceOf mountain and of plain, --Unbroken forehead from the eastUnto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,It wraps it, rail by rail,Till it is lost in fleeces;It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem, --The summer's empty room,Acres of seams where harvests were,Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,As ankles of a queen, --Then stills its artisans like ghosts,Denying they have been.
LI.
THE BLUE JAY.
No brigadier throughout the yearSo civic as the jay.A neighbor and a warrior too,With shrill felicity
Pursuing winds that censure usA February day,The brother of the universeWas never blown away.
The snow and he are intimate;I 've often seen them playWhen heaven looked upon us allWith such severity,
I felt apology were dueTo an insulted sky,Whose pompous frown was nutrimentTo their temerity.
The pillow of this daring headIs pungent evergreens;His larder -- terse and militant --Unknown, refreshing things;
His character a tonic,His future a dispute;Unfair an immortalityThat leaves this neighbor out.