summer
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The Winters are so short –
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away –
And moving into Pod –
Myself — for scarcely settled –
The Phoebes have begun –
And then — it’s time to strike my Tent –
And open House — again –
It’s mostly, interruptions –
My Summer — is despoiled –
Because there was a Winter — once –
And all the Cattle — starved –
And so there was a Deluge –
And swept the World away –
But Ararat’s a Legend — now –
And no one credits Noah –
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When Diamonds are a Legend,
And Diadems — a Tale –
I Brooch and Earrings for Myself,
Do sow, and Raise for sale –
And tho’ I’m scarce accounted,
My Art, a Summer Day — had Patrons –
Once — it was a Queen –
And once — a Butterfly –
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Tags: accounted, art, brooch, butterly, day, diadems, diamonds, earrings, legend, myself, once, patrons, queen, raise, sale, scarce, sow, summer, tale
It will be Summer — eventually.
Ladies — with parasols –
Sauntering Gentlemen — with Canes –
And little Girls — with Dolls –
Will tint the pallid landscape –
As ’twere a bright Bouquet –
Thro’ drifted deep, in Parian –
The Village lies — today –
The Lilacs — bending many a year –
Will sway with purple load –
The Bees — will not despise the tune –
Their Forefathers — have hummed –
The Wild Rose — 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 –
Of Priests — adjust the Symbols –
When Sacrament — is done –
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There came a Day at Summer’s full,
Entirely for me –
I thought that such were for the Saints,
Where Resurrections — be –
The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new –
The time was scarce profaned, by speech –
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe — of our Lord –
Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune this — time –
Lest we too awkward show
At Supper of the Lamb.
The Hours slid fast — as Hours will,
Clutched tight, by greedy hands –
So faces on two Decks, look back,
Bound to opposing lands –
And so when all the time had leaked,
Without external sound
Each bound the Other’s Crucifix –
We gave no other Bond –
Sufficient troth, that we shall rise –
Deposed — at length, the Grave –
To that new Marriage,
Justified — through Calvaries of Love –
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Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs –
That phraseless Melody –
The Wind does — working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky –
Then quiver down — with tufts of Tune –
Permitted Gods, and me –
Inheritance, it is, to us –
Beyond the Art to Earn –
Beyond the trait to take away
By Robber, since the Gain
Is gotten not of fingers –
And inner than the Bone –
Hid golden, for the whole of Days,
And even in the Urn,
I cannot vouch the merry Dust
Do not arise and play
In some odd fashion of its own,
Some quainter Holiday,
When Winds go round and round in Bands –
And thrum upon the door,
And Birds take places, overhead,
To bear them Orchestra.
I crave Him grace of Summer Boughs,
If such an Outcast be –
Who never heard that fleshless Chant –
Rise — solemn — on the Tree,
As if some Caravan of Sound
Off Deserts, in the Sky,
Had parted Rank,
Then knit, and swept –
In Seamless Company –
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Her — “last Poems” –
Poets — ended –
Silver — perished — with her Tongue –
Not on Record — bubbled other,
Flute — or Woman –
So divine –
Not unto its Summer — Morning
Robin — uttered Half the Tune –
Gushed too free for the Adoring –
From the Anglo-Florentine –
Late — the Praise –
‘Tis dull — conferring
On the Head too High to Crown –
Diadem — or Ducal Showing –
Be its Grave — sufficient sign –
Nought — that We — No Poet’s Kinsman –
Suffocate — with easy woe –
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom –
Put Her down — in Italy?
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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 –
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Like Some Old fashioned Miracle
When Summertime is done –
Seems Summer’s Recollection
And the Affairs of June
As infinite Tradition
As Cinderella’s Bays –
Or Little John — of Lincoln Green –
Or Blue Beard’s Galleries –
Her Bees have a fictitious Hum –
Her Blossoms, like a Dream –
Elate us — till we almost weep –
So plausible — they seem –
Her Memories like Strains — Review –
When Orchestra is dumb –
The Violin in Baize replaced –
And Ear — and Heaven — numb –
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