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His Feet are shod with Gauze— His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid. His Labor is a Chant— His Idleness—a Tune— Oh, for a Bee’s experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!
His Bill an Auger is, His Head, a Cap and Frill. He laboreth at every Tree A Worm, His utmost Goal.
Herein a Blossom lies— A Sepulchre, between— Cross it, and overcome the Bee— Remain—’tis but a Rind.
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…
Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night Had scarcely deigned to lie— When, stirring, for Belief’s delight, My Bride had slipped away— If ’twas a Dream—made solid—just The Heaven to confirm— Or if Myself were dreamed of Her—…
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead Came the Darker Way— Carriages—Be Sure—and Guests—too— But for Holiday ‘Tis more pitiful Endeavor Than did Loaded Sea O’er the Curls attempt to caper It had cast away— Never Bride had…
Her smile was shaped like other smiles— The Dimples ran along— And still it hurt you, as some Bird Did hoist herself, to sing, Then recollect a Ball, she got— And hold upon the Twig, Convulsive, while the Music broke—…
Her Grace is all she has— And that, so least displays— One Art to recognize, must be, Another Art, to praise.
Her final Summer was it— And yet We guessed it not— If tenderer industriousness Pervaded Her, We thought A further force of life Developed from within— When Death lit all the shortness up It made the hurry plain— …
Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver”— Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest. Her heart is fit for home— I—a Sparrow—build there Sweet of twigs and twine My perennial…