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I’ll clutch — and clutch –
Next — One — Might be the golden touch –
Could take it –
Diamonds — Wait –
I’m diving — just a little late –
But stars — go slow — for night –
I’ll string you — in fine Necklace –
Tiaras — make — of some –
Wear you on Hem –
Loop up a Countess — with you –
Make — a Diadem — and mend my old One –
Count — Hoard — then lose –
And doubt that you are mine –
To have the joy of feeling it — again –
I’ll show you at the Court –
Bear you — for Ornament
Where Women breathe –
That every sigh — may lift you
Just as high — as I –
And — when I die –
In meek array — display you –
Still to show — how rich I go –
Lest Skies impeach a wealth so wonderful –
And banish me –
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Good Morning — Midnight –
I’m coming Home –
Day — got tired of Me –
How could I — of Him?
Sunshine was a sweet place –
I liked to stay –
But Morn — didn’t want me — now –
So — Goodnight — Day!
I can look — can’t I –
When the East is Red?
The Hills — have a way — then –
That puts the Heart — abroad –
You — are not so fair — Midnight –
I chose — Day –
But — please take a little Girl –
He turned away!
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We grow accustomed to the Dark –
When light is put away –
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye –
A Moment — We uncertain step
For newness of the night –
Then — fit our Vision to the Dark –
And meet the Road — erect –
And so of larger — Darkness –
Those Evenings of the Brain –
When not a Moon disclose a sign –
Or Star — come out — within –
The Bravest — grope a little –
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead –
But as they learn to see –
Either the Darkness alters –
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight –
And Life steps almost straight.
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The Color of the Grave is Green –
The Outer Grave — I mean –
You would not know it from the Field –
Except it own a Stone –
To help the fond — to find it –
Too infinite asleep
To stop and tell them where it is –
But just a Daisy — deep –
The Color of the Grave is white –
The outer Grave — I mean –
You would not know it from the Drifts –
In Winter — till the Sun –
Has furrowed out the Aisles –
Then — higher than the Land
The little Dwelling Houses rise
Where each — has left a friend –
The Color of the Grave within –
The Duplicate — I mean –
Not all the Snows could make it white –
Not all the Summers — Green –
You’ve seen the Color — maybe –
Upon a Bonnet bound –
When that you met it with before –
The Ferret — cannot find –
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I’m saying every day
“If I should be a Queen, tomorrow” –
I’d do this way –
And so I deck, a little,
If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
None on me, bend supercilious –
With “This was she –
Begged in the Market place –
Yesterday.”
Court is a stately place –
I’ve heard men say –
So I loop my apron, against the Majesty
With bright Pins of Buttercup –
That not too plain –
Rank — overtake me –
And perch my Tongue
On Twigs of singing — rather high –
But this, might be my brief Term
To qualify –
Put from my simple speech all plain word –
Take other accents, as such I heard
Though but for the Cricket — just,
And but for the Bee –
Not in all the Meadow –
One accost me –
Better to be ready –
Than did next morn
Meet me in Aragon –
My old Gown — on –
And the surprised Air
Rustics — wear –
Summoned — unexpectedly –
To Exeter –
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Although I put away his life –
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand
That sowed the flower, he preferred –
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path –
Or played his chosen tune –
On Lute the least — the latest –
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe’er delighted it,
I never would let go –
The foot to bear his errand –
A little Boot I know –
Would leap abroad like Antelope –
With just the grant to do –
His weariest Commandment –
A sweeter to obey,
Than “Hide and Seek” –
Or skip to Flutes –
Or all Day, chase the Bee –
Your Servant, Sir, will weary –
The Surgeon, will not come –
The World, will have its own — to do –
The Dust, will vex your Fame –
The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay –
That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me –
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first — to me.
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‘Twas the old — road — through pain –
That unfrequented — one –
With many a turn — and thorn –
That stops — at Heaven –
This — was the Town — she passed –
There — where she — rested — last –
Then — stepped more fast –
The little tracks — close prest –
Then — not so swift –
Slow — slow — as feet did weary — grow –
Then — stopped — no other track!
Wait! Look! Her little Book –
The leaf — at love — turned back –
Her very Hat –
And this worn shoe just fits the track –
Herself — though — fled!
Another bed — a short one –
Women make — tonight –
In Chambers bright –
Too out of sight — though –
For our hoarse Good Night –
To touch her Head!
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