It’s like the Light –
A fashionless Delight –
It’s like the Bee –
A dateless — Melody –

It’s like the Woods –
Private — Like the Breeze –
Phraseless — yet it stirs
The proudest Trees –

It’s like the Morning –
Best — when it’s done –
And the Everlasting Clocks –
Chime — Noon!

Good Night! Which put the Candle out?
A jealous Zephyr — not a doubt –
Ah, friend, you little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The Angels — labored diligent –
Extinguished — now — for you!

It might — have been the Light House spark –
Some Sailor — rowing in the Dark –
Had importuned to see!
It might — have been the waning lamp
That lit the Drummer from the Camp
To purer Reveille!

What would I give to see his face?
I’d give — I’d give my life — of course –
But that is not enough!
Stop just a minute — let me think!
I’d give my biggest Bobolink!
That makes two — Him — and Life!
You know who “June” is –
I’d give her –
Roses a day from Zanzibar –
And Lily tubes — like Wells –
Bees — by the furlong –
Straits of Blue
Navies of Butterflies — sailed thro’ –
And dappled Cowslip Dells –

Then I have “shares” in Primrose “Banks” –
Daffodil Dowries — spicy “Stocks” –
Dominions — broad as Dew –
Bags of Doublons — adventurous Bees
Brought me — from firmamental seas –
And Purple — from Peru –

Now — have I bought it –
“Shylock”? Say!
Sign me the Bond!
“I vow to pay
To Her — who pledges this –
One hour — of her Sovereign’s face”!
Ecstatic Contract!
Niggard Grace!
My Kingdom’s worth of Bliss!

We — Bee and I — live by the quaffing –
‘Tisn’t all Hock — with us –
Life has its Ale –
But it’s many a lay of the Dim Burgundy –
We chant — for cheer — when the Wines — fail –

Do we “get drunk”?
Ask the jolly Clovers!
Do we “beat” our “Wife”?
I — never wed –
Bee — pledges his — in minute flagons –
Dainty — as the trees — on our deft Head –

While runs the Rhine –
He and I — revel –
First — at the vat — and latest at the Vine –
Noon — our last Cup –
“Found dead” — “of Nectar” –
By a humming Coroner –
In a By-Thyme!

The Flower must not blame the Bee –
That seeketh his felicity
Too often at her door –

But teach the Footman from Vevay –
Mistress is “not at home” — to say –
To people — any more!

I stole them from a Bee –
Because — Thee –
Sweet plea –
He pardoned me!

I’m the little “Heart’s Ease”!
I don’t care for pouting skies!
If the Butterfly delay
Can I, therefore, stay away?

If the Coward Bumble Bee
In his chimney corner stay,
I, must resoluter be!
Who’ll apologize for me?

Dear, Old fashioned, little flower!
Eden is old fashioned, too!
Birds are antiquated fellows!
Heaven does not change her blue.
Nor will I, the little Heart’s Ease –
Ever be induced to do!

Except to Heaven, she is nought.
Except for Angels — lone.
Except to some wide-wandering Bee
A flower superfluous blown.

Except for winds — provincial.
Except by Butterflies
Unnoticed as a single dew
That on the Acre lies.

The smallest Housewife in the grass,
Yet take her from the Lawn
And somebody has lost the face
That made Existence — Home!

These are the days when Birds come back –
A very few — a Bird or two –
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume
The old — old sophistries of June –
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee –
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear –
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze –
Permit a child to join.

Thy sacred emblems to partake –
They consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!

Some Rainbow — coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere –
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock’s purple Train
Feather by feather — on the plain
Fritters itself away!

The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year’s sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees — march — one by one –
In murmuring platoon!

The Robins stand as thick today
As flakes of snow stood yesterday –
On fence — and Roof — and Twig!
The Orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover – Don the Sun!
Revisiting the Bog!

Without Commander! Countless! Still!
The Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas –
Or what Circassian Land?