Part 32

In forest and the hill By traveller is heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation, A summer afternoon, -- Her household, her assembly; And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles Incites the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep She turns as long away As will suffice to light her lamps; Then, bending from the sky

With infinite affection And infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere.

II.

OUT OF THE MORNING.

Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies? Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! Oh, some wise man from the skies! Please to tell a little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies!

III.

At half-past three a single bird Unto a silent sky Propounded but a single term Of cautious melody.

At half-past four, experiment Had subjugated test, And lo! her silver principle Supplanted all the rest.

At half-past seven, element Nor implement was seen, And place was where the presence was, Circumference between.

IV.

DAY'S PARLOR.

The day came slow, till five o'clock, Then sprang before the hills Like hindered rubies, or the light A sudden musket spills.

The purple could not keep the east, The sunrise shook from fold, Like breadths of topaz, packed a night, The lady just unrolled.

The happy winds their timbrels took; The birds, in docile rows, Arranged themselves around their prince (The wind is prince of those).

The orchard sparkled like a Jew, -- How mighty 't was, to stay A guest in this stupendous place, The parlor of the day!

THE SUN'S WOOING.

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.

She felt herself supremer, -- A raised, ethereal thing; Henceforth for her what holiday! Meanwhile, her wheeling king

Trailed slow along the orchards His haughty, spangled hems, Leaving a new necessity, -- The want of diadems!

The morning fluttered, staggered, Felt feebly for her crown, -- Her unanointed forehead Henceforth her only one.

VI.

THE ROBIN.

The robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports When March is scarcely on.