Mother nature
I
Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest, –
Her admonition mild
In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.
How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon, –
Her household, her assembly ;
And when the sun goes down
Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.
When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps ;
Then, bending from the sky
With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.
The robin
VI
The robin is the one
That interrupts the morn
With hurried, few, express reports
When March is scarcely on.
The robin is the one
That overflows the noon
With her cherubic quantity,
An April but begun ?
The robin is the one
That speechless from her nest
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best.
The butterfly's day
VII
From cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged – a summer afternoon –
Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As 't were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea.
The bluebird
VIII
Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.
With specimens of song,
As if for you to choose,
Discrection in the interval,
With gay delays he goes
To some superior tree
Without a single leaf,
And shouts for joy to nobody
But his seraphic self !
April
IX
An altered look about the hills ;
A Tyrian light the village fills ;
A wider sunrise in the dawn ;
A deeper twilight on the lawn ;
A print of a vermilion foot ;
A purple finger on the slope ;
A flippant fly upon the pane ;
A spider at his trade again ;
An added strut in chanticleer ;
A flower expected enverswhere ;
An axe shrill singing in the woods ;
Fern-odors on untravelled roads, –
All this, and more I cannot tell,
A furtive look you know as well,
And Nicodemus' mystery
Receives its annual reply.
My rose
XI
Pigmy seraphs gone astray,
Velvet people from Vevay,
Belles from some lost summer day,
Bees' exclusive coterie.
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with emerald ;
Venice could not show a cheek
Of a tint so lustrous meek.
Nerver such an ambuscade
As of brier and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid.
I had rather wear her grace
Than an earl's distinguished face ;
I had rather dwell like her
Than be Duke of Exeter
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the bumble-bee !
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