PINK, small, and punctual,
Aromatic, low,
Covert in April,
Candid in May,
Dear to the moss,
Known by the knoll... More→

THE murmur of a bee
A witchcraft yieldeth me.
If any ask me why,
’T were easier to die
Than tell. More→

PERHAPS you’d like to buy a flower?
But I could never sell.
If you would like to borrow
Until the daffodil
Unties her yellow bonnet... More→

THE pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee... More→

SOME keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome. More→

THE bee is not afraid of me,
I know the butterfly;
The pretty people in the woods
Receive me cordially. More→

SOME rainbow coming from the fair!
Some vision of the world Cashmere
I confidently see!
Or else, a peacock’s purple train,
Feather by feather, on the plain
Fritters itself away!

The dreamy butterflies bestir,
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year’s sundered tune.

From some old fortress on the sun
Baronial bees march, one by one,
In murmuring platoon! More→

THE grass so little has to do —
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain;

And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything... More→

ALITTLE road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly. More→

ADROP fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.

A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,
What necklaces could be! More→

ASOMETHING in a summer’s day,
As slow her flambeaux burn away,
Which solemnizes me;

A something in a summer’s noon —
An azure depth, a wordless tune,
Transcending ecstasy;

And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright,
I clap my hands to see;

Then veil my too inspecting face,
Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me. More→

THIS is the land the sunset washes,
These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
These are the western mystery! More→

THERE is a flower that bees prefer,
And butterflies desire;
To gain the purple democrat
The humming-birds aspire;
And whatsoever insect pass,
A honey bears away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her capacity. More→

LIKE trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms. More→

PRESENTIMENT is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down... More→

AS children bid the guest good-night,
And then reluctant turn,
My flowers raise their pretty lips,
Then put their nightgowns on. More→

ANGELS, in the early morning,
May be seen the dews among;
Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:
Do the buds to them belong? More→

SO bashful, when I spied her,
So pretty, so ashamed!
So hidden in her leaflets,
Lest anybody find... More→

IT makes no difference abroad —
The seasons fit the same,
The mornings blossom into noons,
And split their pods of flame. More→

THE mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation omnifold,
His inquest everywhere. More→

I’LL tell you how the sun rose —
A ribbon at a time!
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran!

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun;
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!” More→

THE butterfly’s assumption-gown,
In chrysoprase apartments hung,
This afternoon put on. More→

OF 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 brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.

When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra... More→

APPARENTLY with no surprise
To any happy flower,
The frost beheads it at its play
In accidental power. More→

’TWAS later, when the summer went
Than when the cricket came,
And yet we knew that gentle clock
Meant nought but going home. More→

THESE are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, —
A blue and gold mistake. More→

THE morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town. More→

THE sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates, if it will go. More→

THERE'S a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are. More→