Part 39

Butterflies pause On their passage Cashmere; I, softly plucking, Present them here!

XXXIX.

SUNSET.

Where ships of purple gently toss On seas of daffodil, Fantastic sailors mingle, And then -- the wharf is still.

XL.

She sweeps with many-colored brooms, And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond!

You dropped a purple ravelling in, You dropped an amber thread; And now you 've littered all the East With duds of emerald!

And still she plies her spotted brooms, And still the aprons fly, Till brooms fade softly into stars -- And then I come away.

XLI.

Like mighty footlights burned the red At bases of the trees, -- The far theatricals of day Exhibiting to these.

'T was universe that did applaud While, chiefest of the crowd, Enabled by his royal dress, Myself distinguished God.

XLII.

PROBLEMS.

Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning's flagons up, And say how many dew; Tell me how far the morning leaps, Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadths of blue!

Write me how many notes there be In the new robin's ecstasy Among astonished boughs; How many trips the tortoise makes, How many cups the bee partakes, -- The debauchee of dews!

Also, who laid the rainbow's piers, Also, who leads the docile spheres By withes of supple blue? Whose fingers string the stalactite, Who counts the wampum of the night, To see that none is due?

Who built this little Alban house And shut the windows down so close My spirit cannot see? Who 'll let me out some gala day, With implements to fly away, Passing pomposity?

XLIII.

THE JUGGLER OF DAY.

Blazing in gold and quenching in purple, Leaping like leopards to the sky, Then at the feet of the old horizon Laying her spotted face, to die;

Stooping as low as the otter's window, Touching the roof and tinting the barn, Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, -- And the juggler of day is gone!

XLIV.

MY CRICKET.

Farther in summer than the birds, Pathetic from the grass, A minor nation celebrates Its unobtrusive mass.

No ordinance is seen, So gradual the grace, A pensive custom it becomes, Enlarging loneliness.

Antiquest felt at noon When August, burning low, Calls forth this spectral canticle, Repose to typify.

Remit as yet no grace, No furrow on the glow, Yet a druidic difference Enhances nature now.

XLV.