Part 11

Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred By tropic hint, -- some travelled bird Imported to the wood;

Or wind's bright signal to the ear, Making that homely and severe, Contented, known, before

The heaven unexpected came, To lives that thought their worshipping A too presumptuous psalm.

XIII.

THE SEA OF SUNSET.

This is the land the sunset washes, These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; Where it rose, or whither it rushes, These are the western mystery!

Night after night her purple traffic Strews the landing with opal bales; Merchantmen poise upon horizons, Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

XIV.

PURPLE CLOVER.

There is a flower that bees prefer, And butterflies desire; To gain the purple democrat The humming-birds aspire.

And whatsoever insect pass, A honey bears away Proportioned to his several dearth And her capacity.

Her face is rounder than the moon, And ruddier than the gown Of orchis in the pasture, Or rhododendron worn.

She doth not wait for June; Before the world is green Her sturdy little countenance Against the wind is seen,

Contending with the grass, Near kinsman to herself, For privilege of sod and sun, Sweet litigants for life.

And when the hills are full, And newer fashions blow, Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy.

Her public is the noon, Her providence the sun, Her progress by the bee proclaimed In sovereign, swerveless tune.

The bravest of the host, Surrendering the last, Nor even of defeat aware When cancelled by the frost.

XV.

THE BEE.

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault Their chivalry consumes, While he, victorious, tilts away To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze, His helmet is of gold; His breast, a single onyx With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon!

XVI.

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.

XVII.

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.