A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe —
And golden hang — while farther up —
The Maker’s Ladders stop —
And in the Orchard far below —
You hear a Being — drop —
A Wonderful — to feel the Sun
Still toiling at the Cheek
You thought was finished —
Cool of eye, and critical of Work —
He shifts the stem — a little —
To give your Core — a look —
But solemnest — to know
Your chance in Harvest moves
A little nearer — Every Sun
The Single — to some lives.
Not probable — The barest Chance —
A smile too few — a word too much
And 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 wing
And perish — but a Bough between —
Oh, Groping feet —
Oh Phantom Queen!
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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 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 Fellows, do,
In your new-fashioned world!