Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
Andhat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows,
Pays to the place the reverence he owes,
Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows,
Lists to the sermon in a softening doze,
And rouses joyous at the welcome close.
Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
The garden reeks with an East Indian scent
From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent;
The white heat pales the skies from side to side;
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content,
Like starry blooms on a new firmament,
White lilies float and regally abide.
In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed;
The lily does not feel their brazen glare.
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share
Their dews, the lily feels no thirst, no dread.
Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head;
She drinks of living waters and keeps fair.
My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read,
'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.
Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?
Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
I made a posie, while the day ran by:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.
But time did becken to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away
And wither'd in my hand.
My hand was next to them, and then my heart:
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Times gentle admonition:
Who did so sweetly deaths sad taste convey
Making my minde to smell my fatall day;
Yet sugring the suspicion.
Farewell deare flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Who has not found the Heaven -- below --
Will fail of it above --
For Angels rent the House next ours,
Wherever we remove --
Of Nature I shall have enough
When I have entered these
Entitled to a Bumble bee's
Familiarities.
I'm "wife" -- I've finished that --
That other state --
I'm Czar -- I'm "Woman" now --
It's safer so --
How odd the Girl's life looks
Behind this soft Eclipse --
I think that Earth feels so
To folks in Heaven -- now --
This being comfort -- then
That other kind -- was pain --
But why compare?
I'm "Wife"! Stop there!
The inundation of the Spring
Enlarges every soul --
It sweeps the tenement away
But leaves the Water whole --
In which the soul at first estranged --
Seeks faintly for its shore
But acclimated -- pines no more
For that Peninsula --
I went to Heaven --
'Twas a small Town --
Lit -- with a Ruby --
Lathed -- with Down --
Stiller -- than the fields
At the full Dew --
Beautiful -- as Pictures --
No Man drew.
People -- like the Moth --
Of Mechlin -- frames --
Duties -- of Gossamer --
And Eider -- names --
Almost -- contented --
I -- could be --
'Mong such unique
Society --
Like Flowers, that heard the news of Dews,
But never deemed the dripping prize
Awaited their -- low Brows --
Or Bees -- that thought the Summer's name
Some rumor of Delirium,
No Summer -- could -- for Them --
Or Arctic Creatures, dimly stirred --
By Tropic Hint -- some Travelled Bird
Imported to the Wood --
Or Wind's bright signal to the Ear --
Making that homely, and severe,
Contented, known, before --
The Heaven -- unexpected come,
To Lives that thought the Worshipping
A too presumptuous Psalm --
A little Dog that wags his tail
And knows no other joy
Of such a little Dog am I
Reminded by a Boy
Who gambols all the living Day
Without an earthly cause
Because he is a little Boy
I honestly suppose --
The Cat that in the Corner dwells
Her martial Day forgot
The Mouse but a Tradition now
Of her desireless Lot
Another class remind me
Who neither please nor play
But not to make a "bit of noise"
Beseech each little Boy --
'Twould ease -- a Butterfly --
Elate -- a Bee --
Thou'rt neither --
Neither -- thy capacity --
But, Blossom, were I,
I would rather be
Thy moment
Than a Bee's Eternity --
Content of fading
Is enough for me --
Fade I unto Divinity --
And Dying -- Lifetime --
Ample as the Eye --
Her least attention raise on me --