Part 56

I knew no more of want or cold, Phantasms both become, For this new value in the soul, Supremest earthly sum.

The heaven below the heaven above Obscured with ruddier hue. Life's latitude leant over-full; The judgment perished, too.

Why joys so scantily disburse, Why Paradise defer, Why floods are served to us in bowls, -- I speculate no more.

WITH A FLOWER.

When roses cease to bloom, dear, And violets are done, When bumble-bees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the sun,

The hand that paused to gather Upon this summer's day Will idle lie, in Auburn, -- Then take my flower, pray!

VI.

SONG.

Summer for thee grant I may be When summer days are flown! Thy music still when whippoorwill And oriole are done!

For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb And sow my blossoms o'er! Pray gather me, Anemone, Thy flower forevermore!

VII.

LOYALTY.

Split the lark and you'll find the music, Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled, Scantily dealt to the summer morning, Saved for your ear when lutes be old.

Loose the flood, you shall find it patent, Gush after gush, reserved for you; Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas, Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?

VIII.

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain All other hearts I knew. 'T is true the drought is destitute, But then I had the dew!

The Caspian has its realms of sand, Its other realm of sea; Without the sterile perquisite No Caspian could be.

IX.

Poor little heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care!

Proud little heart! Did they forsake thee? Be debonair! Be debonair!

Frail little heart! I would not break thee: Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?

Gay little heart! Like morning glory Thou'll wilted be; thou'll wilted be!

FORGOTTEN.

There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man. It hurls its barbed syllables,-- At once is mute again. But where it fell The saved will tell On patriotic day, Some epauletted brother Gave his breath away.

Wherever runs the breathless sun, Wherever roams the day, There is its noiseless onset, There is its victory!

Behold the keenest marksman! The most accomplished shot! Time's sublimest target Is a soul 'forgot'!

XI.

I've got an arrow here; Loving the hand that sent it, I the dart revere.