Part 9

Dear to the moss, Known by the knoll, Next to the robin In every human soul.

Bold little beauty, Bedecked with thee, Nature forswears Antiquity.

III.

WHY?

The murmur of a bee A witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why, 'T were easier to die Than tell.

The red upon the hill Taketh away my will; If anybody sneer, Take care, for God is here, That's all.

The breaking of the day Addeth to my degree; If any ask me how, Artist, who drew me so, Must tell!

IV.

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower? But I could never sell. If you would like to borrow Until the daffodil

Unties her yellow bonnet Beneath the village door, Until the bees, from clover rows Their hock and sherry draw,

Why, I will lend until just then, But not an hour more!

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

VI.

A SERVICE OF SONG.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it staying at home, With a bobolink for a chorister, And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice; I just wear my wings, And instead of tolling the bell for church, Our little sexton sings.

God preaches, -- a noted clergyman, -- And the sermon is never long; So instead of getting to heaven at last, I'm going all along!

VII.

The bee is not afraid of me, I know the butterfly; The pretty people in the woods Receive me cordially.

The brooks laugh louder when I come, The breezes madder play. Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists? Wherefore, O summer's day?

VIII.

SUMMER'S ARMIES.

Some rainbow coming from the fair! Some vision of the world Cashmere I confidently see! Or else a peacock's purple train, Feather by feather, on the plain Fritters itself away!

The dreamy butterflies bestir, Lethargic pools resume the whir Of last year's sundered tune. From some old fortress on the sun Baronial bees march, one by one, In murmuring platoon!

The robins stand as thick to-day As flakes of snow stood yesterday, On fence and roof and twig. The orchis binds her feather on For her old lover, Don the Sun, Revisiting the bog!

Without commander, countless, still, The regiment of wood and hill In bright detachment stand. Behold! Whose multitudes are these? The children of whose turbaned seas, Or what Circassian land?

IX.

THE GRASS.