Tag Archives: tree

We grow accustomed to the Dark –

We grow accustomed to the Dark --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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Of all the Sounds despatched abroad

Of all the Sounds despatched abroadOf 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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Nature — sometimes sears a Sapling –

Nature -- sometimes sears a Sapling --Nature — sometimes sears a Sapling —
Sometimes — scalps a Tree —
Her Green People recollect it
When they do not die —

Fainter Leaves — to Further Seasons —
Dumbly testify —
We — who have the Souls —
Die oftener — Not so vitally –

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When we stand on the tops of Things –

When we stand on the tops of Things --When we stand on the tops of Things —
And like the Trees, look down —
The smoke all cleared away from it —
And Mirrors on the scene —

Just laying light — no soul will wink
Except it have the flaw —
The Sound ones, like the Hills — shall stand —
No Lighting, scares away —

The Perfect, nowhere be afraid —
They bear their dauntless Heads,
Where others, dare not go at Noon,
Protected by their deeds —

The Stars dare shine occasionally
Upon a spotted World —
And Suns, go surer, for their Proof,
As if an Axle, held –

We — Bee and I — live by the quaffing –

We -- Bee and I -- live by the quaffing --We — Bee and I — live by the quaffing —
‘Tisn’t all Hock — with us —
Life has its Ale —
But it’s many a lay of the Dim Burgundy —
We chant — for cheer — when the Wines — fail —

Do we “get drunk”?
Ask the jolly Clovers!
Do we “beat” our “Wife”?
I — never wed —
Bee — pledges his — in minute flagons —
Dainty — as the trees — on our deft Head —

While runs the Rhine —
He and I — revel —
First — at the vat — and latest at the Vine —
Noon — our last Cup —
“Found dead” — “of Nectar” —
By a humming Coroner —
In a By-Thyme!

Make me a picture of the sun –

Make me a picture of the sun --Make me a picture of the sun —
So I can hang it in my room —
And make believe I’m getting warm
When others call it “Day”!

Draw me a Robin — on a stem —
So I am hearing him, I’ll dream,
And when the Orchards stop their tune —
Put my pretense — away —

Say if it’s really — warm at noon —
Whether it’s Buttercups — that “skim” —
Or Butterflies — that “bloom”?
Then — skip — the frost — upon the lea —
And skip the Russet — on the tree —
Let’s play those — never come!

For every Bird a Nest –

For every Bird a Nest --For every Bird a Nest —
Wherefore in timid quest
Some little Wren goes seeking round —

Wherefore when boughs are free —
Households in every tree —
Pilgrim be found?

Perhaps a home too high —
Ah Aristocracy!
The little Wren desires —

Perhaps of twig so fine —
Of twine e’en superfine,
Her pride aspires —

The Lark is not ashamed
To build upon the ground
Her modest house —

Yet who of all the throng
Dancing around the sun
Does so rejoice?