There came a Wind like a Bugle - It quivered through the Grass And a Green Chill upon the Heat So ominous did pass We barred the Windows and the Doors As from an Emerald Ghost - The Doom's electric Moccasin That very instant passed - On a strange Mob of panting Trees And Fences fled away And Rivers where the Houses ran Those looked that lived - that Day - The Bell within the steeple wild The flying tidings told - How much can come And much can go, And yet abide the World!
The Lassitudes of Contemplation Beget a force - They are the spirit's still vacation That him refresh - The Dreams consolidate in action - What mettle fair.
The Bobolink is gone - the Rowdy of the Meadow - And no one swaggers now but me - The Presbyterian Birds can now resume the Meeting He gaily interrupted that overflowing Day When opening the Sabbath in their afflictive Way He bowed to Heaven instead of Earth And shouted Let us pray.
Cosmopolites without a plea Alight in every Land The compliments of Paradise From these within my Hand Their dappled Journey - to themselves A compensation fair - Knock and it shall be opened Is their Theology.
This Me - that walks and works - must die Some fair or stormy Day - Adversity if it may be Or wild prosperity The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight Before my mind was born Not even a Prognostic's push Can make a Dent thereon.
He ate and drank the precious Words - His Spirit grew robust - He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was Dust - He danced along the dingy Days And this Bequest of Wings Was but a Book - What Liberty A loosened Spirit brings. Mangiò e bevve le preziose Parole - Il suo Spirito crebbe robusto - Non era più consapevole d'essere povero, Né che le sue ossa fossero Polvere - Danzava lungo gli squallidi Giorni E questo Lascito d'Ali Era soltanto un Libro - Che Libertà Procura uno Spirito affrancato -
To her derided Home A Weed of Summer came - She did not know her station low Nor Ignominy's name - Bestowed a summer long Upon a frameless flower - Then swept as lightly from disdain As Lady from her Bower - Of Bliss the Codes are few - As Jesus cites of Him - "Come unto me" the Moiety That wafts the Seraphim.
The Bird her punctual music brings And lays it in it's place - It's place is in the Human Heart And in the Heavenly Grace - What respite from her thrilling toil Did Beauty ever take - But Work might be Electric Rest To those that Magic make. L'Uccello porta la sua puntuale musica E la mette al suo posto - Il suo posto è nel Cuore Umano E nella Grazia Celeste - A sollievo dalla sua eccitante fatica Ebbe sempre la Bellezza - Ma il Lavoro può essere Elettrico Riposo Per quelli che creano Magia.
Expanse cannot be lost - Not Joy, but a Decree Is Deity - His Scene, Infinity - Whose rumor's Gate was shut so tight Before my Beam was sown, Not even a Prognostic's push Could make a Dent thereon - The World that thou hast opened Shuts for thee, But not alone, We all have followed thee - Escape more slowly To thy Tracts of Sheen - The Tent is listening, But the Troops are gone!