It sifts from Leaden Sieves –
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road –

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain –
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again –

It reaches to the Fence –
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces –
It deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack — and Stem –
A Summer’s empty Room –
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them–

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen –
Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts –
Denying they have been –

If I’m lost — now
That I was found –
Shall still my transport be –
That once — on me — those Jasper Gates
Blazed open — suddenly –

That in my awkward — gazing — face –
The Angels — softly peered –
And touched me with their fleeces,
Almost as if they cared –
I’m banished — now — you know it –
How foreign that can be –
You’ll know — Sir — when the Savior’s face
Turns so — away from you –

What is — “Paradise” –
Who live there –
Are they “Farmers” –
Do they “hoe” –
Do they know that this is “Amherst” –
And that I — am coming — too –

Do they wear “new shoes” — in “Eden” –
Is it always pleasant — there –
Won’t they scold us — when we’re homesick –
Or tell God — how cross we are –

You are sure there’s such a person
As “a Father” — in the sky –
So if I get lost — there — ever –
Or do what the Nurse calls “die” –
I shan’t walk the “Jasper” — barefoot –
Ransomed folks — won’t laugh at me –
Maybe — “Eden” a’n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!

We don’t cry — Tim and I,
We are far too grand –
But we bolt the door tight
To prevent a friend –

Then we hide our brave face
Deep in our hand –
Not to cry — Tim and I –
We are far too grand –

Nor to dream — he and me –
Do we condescend –
We just shut our brown eye
To see to the end –

Tim — see Cottages –
But, Oh, so high!
Then — we shake — Tim and I –
And lest I — cry –

Tim — reads a little Hymn –
And we both pray –
Please, Sir, I and Tim –
Always lost the way!

We must die — by and by –
Clergymen say –
Tim — shall — if I — do –
I — too — if he –

How shall we arrange it –
Tim — was — so — shy?
Take us simultaneous — Lord –
I — “Tim” — and Me!

I lost a World — the other day!
Has Anybody found?
You’ll know it by the Row of Stars
Around its forehead bound.

A Rich man — might not notice it –
Yet — to my frugal Eye,
Of more Esteem than Ducats –
Oh find it — Sir — for me!

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!

Soul, Wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost indeed –
But tens have won an all –

Angel’s breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee –
Imps in eager Caucus
Raffle for my Soul!

Pigmy seraphs — gone astray –
Velvet people from Vevay –
Balles from some lost summer day –
Bees exclusive Coterie –
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with Emerald –
Venice could not show a check
Of a tint so lustrous meek –
Never such an Ambuscade
As of briar and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid –

I had rather wear her grace
Than an Earl’s distinguished face –
I had rather dwell like her
Than be “Duke of Exeter” –
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the Bumblebee.

Where I have lost, I softer tread –
I sow sweet flower from garden bed –
I pause above that vanished head
And mourn.

Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word –
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
Though stone!

When I have lost, you’ll know by this –
A Bonnet black — A dusk surplice –
A little tremor in my voice Like this!

Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
Next Bliss!

We should not mind so small a flower –
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.

So spicy her Carnations nod –
So drunken, reel her Bees –
So silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees –

That whoso sees this little flower
By faith may clear behold
The Bobolinks around the throne
And Dandelions gold.