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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Did we disobey Him?
Just one time!
Charged us to forget Him —
But we couldn’t learn!
Were Himself — such a Dunce —
What would we — do?
Love the dull lad — best —
Oh, wouldn’t you?
To die — takes just a little while —
They say it doesn’t hurt —
It’s only fainter — by degrees —
And then — it’s out of sight —
A darker Ribbon — for a Day —
A Crape upon the Hat —
And then the pretty sunshine comes —
And helps us to forget —
The absent — mystic — creature —
That but for love of us —
Had gone to sleep — that soundest time —
Without the weariness –
The Lamp burns sure — within —
Tho’ Serfs — supply the Oil —
It matters not the busy Wick —
At her phosphoric toil!
The Slave — forgets — to fill —
The Lamp — burns golden — on —
Unconscious that the oil is out —
As that the Slave — is gone.
It’s all I have to bring today —
This, and my heart beside —
This, and my heart, and all the fields —
And all the meadows wide —
Be sure you count — should I forget
Some one the sum could tell —
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
Bereaved of all, I went abroad,
No less bereaved to be
Upon a new peninsula, —
The grave preceded me,
Obtained my lodgings ere myself,
And when I sought my bed,
The grave it was, reposed upon
The pillow for my head.
I waked, to find it first awake,
I rose, — it followed me;
I tried to drop it in the crowd,
To lose it in the sea,
In cups of artificial drowse
To sleep its shape away, —
The grave was finished, but the spade
Remained in memory.
‘T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou
No station in the day?
‘T was not thy wont to hinder so, —
Retrieve thine industry.
‘T is noon, my little maid, alas!
And art thou sleeping yet?
The lily waiting to be wed,
The bee, dost thou forget?
My little maid, ‘t is night; alas,
That night should be to thee
Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached
Thy little plan to me,
Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet,
I might have aided thee.
The springtime’s pallid landscape
Will glow like bright bouquet,
Though drifted deep in parian
The village lies to-day.
The lilacs, bending many a year,
With purple load will hang;
The bees will not forget the tune
Their old forefathers sang.
The rose will redden in the bog,
The aster on the hill
Her everlasting fashion set,
And covenant gentians frill,
Till summer folds her miracle
As women do their gown,
Or priests adjust the symbols
When sacrament is done.