XVIII.

THE WOODPECKER.

His bill an auger is,

   His head, a cap and frill.

He laboreth at every tree, —

   A worm his utmost goal.

XIX.

A SNAKE.

Sweet is the swamp with its secrets,

   Until we meet a snake;

'T is then we sigh for houses,

   And our departure take

At that enthralling gallop

   That only childhood knows.

A snake is summer's treason,

   And guile is where it goes.

XX.

Could I but ride indefinite,

   As doth the meadow-bee,

And visit only where I liked,

   And no man visit me,

And flirt all day with buttercups,

   And marry whom I may,

And dwell a little everywhere,

   Or better, run away

With no police to follow,

   Or chase me if I do,

Till I should jump peninsulas

   To get away from you, —

I said, but just to be a bee

   Upon a raft of air,

And row in nowhere all day long,

   And anchor off the bar,—

What liberty! So captives deem

   Who tight in dungeons are.

XXI.

THE MOON.

The moon was but a chin of gold

   A night or two ago,

And now she turns her perfect face

   Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond;

   Her cheek like beryl stone;

Her eye unto the summer dew

   The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part;

   But what must be the smile

Upon her friend she could bestow

   Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be

   But the remotest star!

For certainly her way might pass

   Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,

   The universe her shoe,

The stars the trinkets at her belt,

   Her dimities of blue.

XXII.

THE BAT.

The bat is dun with wrinkled wings

   Like fallow article,

And not a song pervades his lips,

   Or none perceptible.

His small umbrella, quaintly halved,

   Describing in the air

An arc alike inscrutable, —

   Elate philosopher!

Deputed from what firmament

   Of what astute abode,

Empowered with what malevolence

   Auspiciously withheld.

To his adroit Creator

   Ascribe no less the praise;

Beneficent, believe me,

   His eccentricities.

XXIII.

THE BALLOON.

You've seen balloons set, haven't you?

   So stately they ascend

It is as swans discarded you

   For duties diamond.

Their liquid feet go softly out

   Upon a sea of blond;

They spurn the air as 't were too mean

   For creatures so renowned.

Their ribbons just beyond the eye,

   They struggle some for breath,

And yet the crowd applauds below;

   They would not encore death.

The gilded creature strains and spins,

   Trips frantic in a tree,

Tears open her imperial veins

   And tumbles in the sea.

The crowd retire with an oath

   The dust in streets goes down,

And clerks in counting-rooms observe,

   ''T was only a balloon.'

XXIV.

EVENING.

The cricket sang,

And set the sun,

And workmen finished, one by one,

   Their seam the day upon.

The low grass loaded with the dew,

The twilight stood as strangers do

With hat in hand, polite and new,

   To stay as if, or go.

A vastness, as a neighbor, came, —

A wisdom without face or name,

A peace, as hemispheres at home, —

   And so the night became.

XXV.

COCOON.

Drab habitation of whom?

Tabernacle or tomb,

Or dome of worm,

Or porch of gnome,

Or some elf's catacomb?

XXVI.

SUNSET.

A sloop of amber slips away

   Upon an ether sea,

And wrecks in peace a purple tar,

   The son of ecstasy.

XXVII.

AURORA.

Of bronze and blaze

   The north, to-night!

   So adequate its forms,

So preconcerted with itself,

   So distant to alarms, —

An unconcern so sovereign

   To universe, or me,

It paints my simple spirit

   With tints of majesty,

Till I take vaster attitudes,

   And strut upon my stem,

Disdaining men and oxygen,

   For arrogance of them.

My splendors are menagerie;

   But their competeless show

Will entertain the centuries

   When I am, long ago,

An island in dishonored grass,

   Whom none but daisies know.

XXVIII.

THE COMING OF NIGHT.

How the old mountains drip with sunset,

   And the brake of dun!

How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel

   By the wizard sun!

How the old steeples hand the scarlet,

   Till the ball is full, —

Have I the lip of the flamingo

   That I dare to tell?

Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,

   Touching all the grass

With a departing, sapphire feature,

   As if a duchess pass!

How a small dusk crawls on the village

   Till the houses blot;

And the odd flambeaux no men carry

   Glimmer on the spot!

Now it is night in nest and kennel,

   And where was the wood,

Just a dome of abyss is nodding

   Into solitude! —

These are the visions baffled Guido;

   Titian never told;

Domenichino dropped the pencil,

   Powerless to unfold.

XXIX.

AFTERMATH.

The murmuring of bees has ceased;

   But murmuring of some

Posterior, prophetic,

   Has simultaneous come, —

The lower metres of the year,

   When nature's laugh is done, —

The Revelations of the book

   Whose Genesis is June.

IV. TIME AND ETERNITY.

I.

This world is not conclusion;

   A sequel stands beyond,

Invisible, as music,

   But positive, as sound.

It beckons and it baffles;

   Philosophies don't know,

And through a riddle, at the last,

   Sagacity must go.

To guess it puzzles scholars;

   To gain it, men have shown

Contempt of generations,

   And crucifixion known.

II.

We learn in the retreating

   How vast an one

Was recently among us.

   A perished sun

Endears in the departure

   How doubly more

Than all the golden presence

   It was before!

III.