404
How many Flowers fail in Wood –
Or perish from the Hill –
Without the privilege to know
That they are Beautiful –
How many cast a nameless Pod
Upon the nearest Breeze –
Unconscious of the Scarlet Freight –
It bear to Other Eyes –
405
It might be lolinier
Without the Loleliness –
I’m so accustomed to my Fate –
Perhaps the Other – Peace –
Would interrupt theDark –
And crowd the little Room –
Too scant – by Cubits – to contain
The Sacrament - of Him –
I am not used to Hope –
It might intrude upon –
It’s sweet parade – blaspheme the place –
Ordained to Suffering –
It might be easier
To fail – with Land in Sight –
That gain – My Blue Peninsula –
To perish – of Delight –
435
Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –
‘Tis the Majority
In this, as all, that prevail –
Assent – and you are sane –
Demur – yu’re straightway dangerous –
And handlead with Chain –
500
Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel –
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As’ twere a travelling Mill –
He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose –
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,
Till every spice is tasted –
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres –
And I rejoin my Dog.
And He and I, perplex us
If positive, ‘twere we –
Or borethe Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity –
But He, the Best Logician,
Refers my doller – eye –
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An exquisite reply!
513
Like flowers, that heard the news of Dews –
But never deemed the dripping prize
Awaited their – low Brows –
Or Bees – that thought the summer’s name
Some rumor of Delirium,
No summer – could – for them –
Or Artic Creatures, dimly stirred –
By Tropic Hint – some Travelled Bird
Imported to the Wood –
Or Wind’s bright signal to the Hear –
Making that homely, and severe, Contented, known, before –
The Heaven - unexpected come,
To lives that thought the Worshipping
A too presumptuous Psalm –
516
Beauty – be not caused – It Is –
Chase it, and it ceases –
Chase it not, and it abides –
Overtakes the Creases
In the Meadow – when the Wind
Runs his fingers thr’o it –
Deity will see to it
That you never do it –
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