Part 60

To my quick ear the leaves conferred; The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy From Nature's sentinels.

In cave if I presumed to hide, The walls began to tell; Creation seemed a mighty crack To make me visible.

XI.

A ROSE.

A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer's morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breeze A caper in the trees, -- And I'm a rose!

XII.

High from the earth I heard a bird; He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly Upon a pile of wind Which in a perturbation Nature had left behind. A joyous-going fellow I gathered from his talk, Which both of benediction And badinage partook, Without apparent burden, I learned, in leafy wood He was the faithful father Of a dependent brood; And this untoward transport His remedy for care, -- A contrast to our respites. How different we are!

XIII.

COBWEBS.

The spider as an artist Has never been employed Though his surpassing merit Is freely certified

By every broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian land. Neglected son of genius, I take thee by the hand.

XIV.

A WELL.

What mystery pervades a well! The water lives so far, Like neighbor from another world Residing in a jar.

The grass does not appear afraid; I often wonder he Can stand so close and look so bold At what is dread to me.

Related somehow they may be, -- The sedge stands next the sea, Where he is floorless, yet of fear No evidence gives he.

But nature is a stranger yet; The ones that cite her most Have never passed her haunted house, Nor simplified her ghost.

To pity those that know her not Is helped by the regret That those who know her, know her less The nearer her they get.

XV.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, -- One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do If bees are few.

XVI.

THE WIND.

It's like the light, -- A fashionless delight It's like the bee, -- A dateless melody.

It's like the woods, Private like breeze, Phraseless, yet it stirs The proudest trees.

It's like the morning, -- Best when it's done, -- The everlasting clocks Chime noon.

XVII.

A dew sufficed itself And satisfied a leaf, And felt, 'how vast a destiny! How trivial is life!'

The sun went out to work, The day went out to play, But not again that dew was seen By physiognomy.