orchard
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The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard — today –
Further than that –
Nor stop to play with the Hay –
Nor joggle a Hat –
He’s a transitive fellow — very –
Rely on that –
If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir –
But the Fir is Where — Declare –
Were you ever there?
If He brings Odors of Clovers –
And that is His business — not Ours –
Then He has been with the Mowers –
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay –
His Way — of a June Day –
If He fling Sand, and Pebble –
Little Boys Hats — and Stubble –
With an occasional Steeple –
And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,”
Who’d be the fool to stay?
Would you — Say –
Would you be the fool to stay?
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The Robin’s my Criterion for Tune —
Because I grow — where Robins do —
But, were I Cuckoo born —
I’d swear by him —
The ode familiar — rules the Noon —
The Buttercup’s, my Whim for Bloom —
Because, we’re Orchard sprung —
But, were I Britain born,
I’d Daisies spurn —
None but the Nut — October fit —
Because, through dropping it,
The Seasons flit — I’m taught —
Without the Snow’s Tableau
Winter, were lie — to me —
Because I see — New Englandly —
The Queen, discerns like me —
Provincially —
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