wake
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The Angle of a Landscape –
That every time I wake –
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack –
Like a Venetian — waiting –
Accosts my open eye –
Is just a Bough of Apples –
Held slanting, in the Sky –
The Pattern of a Chimney –
The Forehead of a Hill –
Sometimes — a Vane’s Forefinger –
But that’s — Occasional –
The Seasons — shift — my Picture –
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake — to find no — Emeralds –
Then — Diamonds — which the Snow
From Polar Caskets — fetched me –
The Chimney — and the Hill –
And just the Steeple’s finger –
These — never stir at all –
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I’m saying every day
“If I should be a Queen, tomorrow” –
I’d do this way –
And so I deck, a little,
If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
None on me, bend supercilious –
With “This was she –
Begged in the Market place –
Yesterday.”
Court is a stately place –
I’ve heard men say –
So I loop my apron, against the Majesty
With bright Pins of Buttercup –
That not too plain –
Rank — overtake me –
And perch my Tongue
On Twigs of singing — rather high –
But this, might be my brief Term
To qualify –
Put from my simple speech all plain word –
Take other accents, as such I heard
Though but for the Cricket — just,
And but for the Bee –
Not in all the Meadow –
One accost me –
Better to be ready –
Than did next morn
Meet me in Aragon –
My old Gown — on –
And the surprised Air
Rustics — wear –
Summoned — unexpectedly –
To Exeter –
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You love me — you are sure –
I shall not fear mistake –
I shall not cheated wake –
Some grinning morn –
To find the Sunrise left –
And Orchards — unbereft –
And Dollie — gone!
I need not start — you’re sure –
That night will never be –
When frightened — home to Thee I run –
To find the windows dark –
And no more Dollie — mark –
Quite none?
Be sure you’re sure — you know –
I’ll bear it better now –
If you’ll just tell me so –
Than when — a little dull Balm grown –
Over this pain of mine –
You sting — again!
Tags: balm, bear, cheated, dark, dollie, fear, frightened, home, Love, mistake, morn, orchards, pain, sting, sunrise, unbereft, wake, wndows
Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled –
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again –
Whose are the beds — the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest –
A little further on –
Nearest the door — to wake the Ist –
Little Leontoden.
‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster –
Anemone, and Bell –
Bartsia, in the blanket red –
And chubby Daffodil.
Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied –
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids –
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,
She’s dreaming of the woods!
Then turning from them reverent –
Their bedtime ’tis, she said –
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
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