tune

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?

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 —

I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes –
Each — with a Robin’s expectation –
I — with my Redbreast –
And my Rhymes –

Late — when I take my place in summer –
But — I shall bring a fuller tune –
Vespers — are sweeter than Matins — Signor –
Morning — only the seed of Noon –

The Rose did caper on her cheek –
Her Bodice rose and fell –
Her pretty speech — like drunken men –
Did stagger pitiful –

Her fingers fumbled at her work –
Her needle would not go –
What ailed so smart a little Maid –
It puzzled me to know –

Till opposite — I spied a cheek
That bore another Rose –
Just opposite — Another speech
That like the Drunkard goes –

A Vest that like her Bodice, danced –
To the immortal tune –
Till those two troubled — little Clocks
Ticked softly into one.

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!

Heart, not so heavy as mine
Wending late home –
As it passed my window
Whistled itself a tune –
A careless snatch — a ballad — A ditty of the street –
Yet to my irritated Ear
An Anodyne so sweet –
It was as if a Bobolink
Sauntering this way
Carolled, and paused, and carolled –
Then bubbled slow away!
It was as if a chirping brook
Upon a dusty way –
Set bleeding feet to minuets
Without the knowing why!
Tomorrow, night will come again –
Perhaps, weary and sore –
Ah Bugle! By my window
I pray you pass once more.