Works -- Part Two: Nature

Part Two: Nature

My nosegays are for captives Nature, the gentlest mother Will there really be a morning? At half-past three a single bird The day came slow, till five o’clock The sun just touched the morning The robin is the one From cocoon forth a butterfly Before you thought of spring An altered look about the hills ‘Whose are the little beds,’ I asked Pigmy seraphs gone astray To hear an oriole sing One of the ones that Midas touched I dreaded that first robin so A route of evanescence The skies can’t keep their secret! Who robbed the woods Two butterflies went out at noon I started early, took my dog Arcturus is his other name An awful tempest mashed the air An everywhere of silver A bird came down the walk: A narrow fellow in the grass The mushroom is the elf of plants There came a wind like a bugle A spider sewed at night I know a place where summer strives The one that could repeat the summer day The wind tapped like a tired man Nature rarer uses yellow The leaves, like women, interchange How happy is the little stone It sounded as if the streets were running The rat is the concisest tenant Frequently the woods are pink The wind begun to rock the grass South winds jostle them Bring me the sunset in a cup She sweeps with many-colored brooms Like mighty footlights burned the red Where ships of purple gently toss Blazing in gold and quenching in purple Farther in summer than the birds As imperceptibly as grief It can’t be summer,—that got through The gentian weaves her fringes God made a little gentian Besides the autumn poets sing It sifts from leaden sieves No brigadier throughout the year New feet within my garden go Pink, small, and punctual The murmur of a bee Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower? The pedigree of honey Some keep the Sabbath going to church The bee is not afraid of me Some rainbow coming from the fair! The grass so little has to do A little road not made of man A drop fell on the apple tree A something in a summer’s day This is the land the sunset washes Like trains of cars on tracks of plush There is a flower that bees prefer Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn As children bid the guest good-night Angels in the early morning So bashful when I spied her It makes no difference abroad The mountain sat upon the plain I ’ll tell you how the sun rose The butterfly’s assumption-gown Of all the sounds despatched abroad Apparently with no surprise ’T was later when the summer went These are the days when birds come back The morns are meeker than they were The sky is low, the clouds are mean I think the hemlock likes to stand There’s a certain slant of light The springtime’s pallid landscape She slept beneath a tree A light exists in spring A lady red upon the hill Dear March, come in! We like March, his shoes are purple Not knowing when the dawn will come A murmur in the trees to note Morning is the place for dew To my quick ear the leaves conferred A sepal, petal, and a thorn High from the earth I heard a bird The spider as an artist What mystery pervades a well! To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee It ’s like the light A dew sufficed itself His bill an auger is Sweet is the swamp with its secrets Could I but ride indefinite The moon was but a chin of gold The bat is dun with wrinkled wings You ’ve seen balloons set, haven’t you? The cricket sang Drab habitation of whom? A sloop of amber slips away Of bronze and blaze How the old mountains drip with sunset The murmuring of bees has ceased