Touch lightly Nature's sweet Guitar
Unless thou know'st the Tune
Or every Bird will point at thee
Because a Bard too soon.
Sfiora appena la dolce Chitarra della Natura
A meno che tu non conosca gli Accordi
Oppure ogni Uccello ti additerà
Come Bardo prematuro.
Those Cattle smaller than a Bee
That herd upon the Eye -
Whose tillage is the passing Crumb -
Those Cattle are the Fly -
Of Barns for Winter - blameless -
Extemporaneous stalls
They found to our objection -
On Eligible Walls -
Reserving the presumption
To suddenly descend
And gallop on the Furniture -
Or odiouser offend -
Of their peculiar calling
Unqualified to judge
To Nature we remand them
To justify or scourge.
The Butterfly's Numidian Gown
With spots of Burnish - roasted on
Is proof against the Sun -
But prone to shut it's spotted Fan
And panting on a Clover lean
As if it were undone.
Summer - we all have seen -
A few of us - believed -
A few - the more aspiring
Unquestionably loved -
But Summer does not care -
She takes her gracious way
As eligible as the Moon
To the Temerity -
Deputed to adore -
The Doom to be adored
Unknown as to an Ecstasy
The Embryo endowed.
"Secrets" is a daily word
Yet does not exist -
Muffled - it remits surmise -
Murmured - it has ceased -
Dungeoned in the Human Breast
Doubtless secrets lie -
But that Grate inviolate -
Comes nor goes away
Nothing with a Tongue or Ear -
Secrets stapled there
Will emerge but once - and dumb -
To the Sepulchre.
Praise it - 'tis dead -
It cannot glow -
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here -
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust -
Remitted - since it flitted it
In recusance august.
Long Years apart - can make no
Breach a second cannot fill -
The absence of the Witch does not
Invalidate the spell -
The embers of a Thousand Years
Uncovered by the Hand
That fondled them when they were Fire
Will stir and understand.
Lunghi Anni lontano - non possono creare
Una breccia che un istante non possa colmare -
L'assenza del Mago non
Invalida l'incantesimo -
Le braci di Mille Anni
Schiuse dalla Mano
Che le carezzava quand'erano Fuoco
Si risveglieranno e capiranno.
In many and reportless places
We feel a Joy -
Reportless, also, but sincere as Nature
Or Deity -
It comes, without a consternation -
Dissolves - the same -
But leaves a sumptuous Destitution -
Without a Name -
Profane it by a search - we cannot
It has no home -
Nor we who having once waylaid it -
Thereafter roam.
Suppose the time will come
Aid it in the coming
When the Bird will crowd the Tree
And the Bee be booming -
I suppose the time will come
Hinder it a little
When the Corn in Silk will dress
And in Chintz the Apple
I believe the Day will be
When the Jay will giggle
At his new white House the Earth
That, too, halt a little.
How much the present moment means
To those who've nothing more -
The Fop - the Carp - the Atheist -
Stake an entire store
Upon a Moment's shallow Rim
While their commuted Feet
The Torrents of Eternity
Do all but inundate.