Chapter 14

UNWARNED.

'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou No station in the day? 'T was not thy wont to hinder so, — Retrieve thine industry.

'T is noon, my little maid, alas! And art thou sleeping yet? The lily waiting to be wed, The bee, dost thou forget?

My little maid, 't is night; alas, That night should be to thee Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached Thy little plan to me, Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet, I might have aided thee.

XV.

Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.

XVI.

Not any higher stands the grave For heroes than for men; Not any nearer for the child Than numb three-score and ten.

This latest leisure equal lulls The beggar and his queen; Propitiate this democrat By summer's gracious mien.

XVII.

ASLEEP.

As far from pity as complaint, As cool to speech as stone, As numb to revelation As if my trade were bone.

As far from time as history, As near yourself to-day As children to the rainbow's scarf, Or sunset's yellow play

To eyelids in the sepulchre. How still the dancer lies, While color's revelations break, And blaze the butterflies!

XVIII.

THE SPIRIT.

'T is whiter than an Indian pipe, 'T is dimmer than a lace; No stature has it, like a fog, When you approach the place.

Not any voice denotes it here, Or intimates it there; A spirit, how doth it accost? What customs hath the air?

This limitless hyperbole Each one of us shall be; 'T is drama, if (hypothesis) It be not tragedy!

XIX.

THE MONUMENT.

She laid her docile crescent down, And this mechanic stone Still states, to dates that have forgot, The news that she is gone.

So constant to its stolid trust, The shaft that never knew, It shames the constancy that fled Before its emblem flew.

XX.

Bless God, he went as soldiers, His musket on his breast; Grant, God, he charge the bravest Of all the martial blest.

Please God, might I behold him In epauletted white, I should not fear the foe then, I should not fear the fight.

XXI.

Immortal is an ample word When what we need is by, But when it leaves us for a time, 'T is a necessity.

Of heaven above the firmest proof We fundamental know, Except for its marauding hand, It had been heaven below.

XXII.

Where every bird is bold to go, And bees abashless play, The foreigner before he knocks Must thrust the tears away.

XXIII.

The grave my little cottage is, Where, keeping house for thee, I make my parlor orderly, And lay the marble tea,

For two divided, briefly, A cycle, it may be, Till everlasting life unite In strong society.

XXIV.

This was in the white of the year, That was in the green, Drifts were as difficult then to think As daisies now to be seen.

Looking back is best that is left, Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect's half, Sometimes almost more.

XXV.

Sweet hours have perished here; This is a mighty room; Within its precincts hopes have played, — Now shadows in the tomb.

XXVI.

Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place!

Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near!

The saints shall meet Our bashful feet.

My holiday shall be That they remember me;

My paradise, the fame That they pronounce my name.

XXVII.

INVISIBLE.

From us she wandered now a year, Her tarrying unknown; If wilderness prevent her feet, Or that ethereal zone

No eye hath seen and lived, We ignorant must be. We only know what time of year We took the mystery.

XXVIII.

I wish I knew that woman's name, So, when she comes this way, To hold my life, and hold my ears, For fear I hear her say

She's 'sorry I am dead,' again, Just when the grave and I Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, — Our only lullaby.