In lands I never saw - they say
Immortal Alps look down -
Whose Bonnets touch the firmament -
Whose Sandals touch the town -
Meek at whose everlasting feet
A Myriad Daisy play -
Which, Sir, are you and which am I
Upon an August day
Many cross the Rhine
In this cup of mine.
Sip old Frankfort air
From my brown Cigar.
A something in a summer's Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon -
A depth - an Azure - a perfume -
Transcending extasy.
And still within a summer's night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see -
Then vail my too inspecting face
Lest such a subtle - shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me -
The wizard fingers never rest -
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it's narrow bed -
Still rears the East her amber Flag -
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red -
So looking on - the night - the morn
Conclude the wonder gay -
And I meet, coming thro' the dews
Another summer's Day!
As Watchers hang upon the East -
As Beggars revel at a feast
By savory fancy spread -
As Brooks in Deserts, babble sweet
On Ear too far for the delight -
Heaven beguiles the tired.
As that same Watcher, when the East
Opens the lid of Amethyst
And lets the morning go -
That Beggar, when an honored Guest -
Those thirsty lips to flagons pressed -
Heaven to us, if true.
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
Beneath the village door,
Until the Bees, from Clover rows
Their Hock, and Sherry, draw,
Why, I will lend until just then,
But not an hour 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
Beneath the village door,
Until the Bees, from Clover rows
Their Hock, and Sherry, draw,
Why, I will lend until just then,
But not an hour more!
As Children bid the Guest "Good Night"
And then reluctant turn -
My flowers raise their pretty lips -
Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake -
Merry that it is Morn -
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again
I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine,
And summon them to drink;
Crackling with fever, they essay,
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.
The hands still hug the tardy glass -
The lips I w'd have cooled, alas -
Are so superfluous cold -
I w'd as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould -
Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this w'd have pointed me
Had it remained to speak -
And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake -
If, haply, any say to me
"Unto the little, unto me,"
When I at last awake -
Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze -
A few incisive mornings -
A few Ascetic eves -
Gone - Mr Bryant's "Golden Rod" -
And Mr Thomson's "sheaves."
Still, is the bustle in the Brook -
Sealed are the spicy valves -
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves -
Perhaps a squirrel may remain -
My sentiments to share -
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind -
Thy windy will to bea
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 resume
The old - old sophistries of June -
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee.
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear -
And softly thro' the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze -
Permit a child to join -
Thy sacred emblems to partake -
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!