New feet within my garden go,New fingers stir the sod;A troubadour upon the elmBetrays the solitude. New children play upon the green,New weary sleep below;And still the pensive spring returns,And still the punctual snow!

Pink, small, and punctual,Aromatic, low,Covert in April,Candid in May, Dear to the moss,Known by the knoll,Next to the robinIn every human soul. Bold little beauty,Bedecked with thee,Nature forswearsAntiquity.

The grass so little has to do, —A sphere of simple green,With only butterflies to brood,And bees to entertain, And stir all day to pretty tunesThe breezes fetch along,And hold the sunshine in its lapAnd bow to everything; And thread the dews all night, like pearls,And make itself so fine, —A duchess were too commonFor […]

Some rainbow coming from the fair!Some vision of the world CashmereI confidently see!Or else a peacock’s purple train,Feather by feather, on the plainFritters itself away! The dreamy butterflies bestir,Lethargic pools resume the whirOf last year’s sundered tune.From some old fortress on the sunBaronial bees march, one by one,In murmuring platoon! The robins stand as thick […]

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 […]

The bee is not afraid of me,I know the butterfly;The pretty people in the woodsReceive me cordially. The brooks laugh louder when I come,The breezes madder play.Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?Wherefore, O summer’s day?

The pedigree of honeyDoes not concern the bee;A clover, any time, to himIs aristocracy.

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawnIndicative that suns go down;The notice to the startled grassThat darkness is about to pass.

Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower?But I could never sell.If you would like to borrowUntil the daffodil Unties her yellow bonnetBeneath the village door,Until the bees, from clover rowsTheir hock and sherry draw, Why, I will lend until just then,But not an hour more!

Like trains of cars on tracks of plushI hear the level bee:A jar across the flowers goes,Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assaultTheir chivalry consumes,While he, victorious, tilts awayTo vanquish other blooms. His feet are shod with gauze,His helmet is of gold;His breast, a single onyxWith chrysoprase, inlaid. His labor is a chant,His idleness […]

There is a flower that bees prefer,And butterflies desire;To gain the purple democratThe humming-birds aspire. And whatsoever insect pass,A honey bears awayProportioned to his several dearthAnd her capacity. Her face is rounder than the moon,And ruddier than the gownOf orchis in the pasture,Or rhododendron worn. She doth not wait for June;Before the world is greenHer […]

This is the land the sunset washes,These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;Where it rose, or whither it rushes,These are the western mystery! Night after night her purple trafficStrews the landing with opal bales;Merchantmen poise upon horizons,Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

A something in a summer’s day,As sIow her flambeaux burn away,Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon, —An azure depth, a wordless tune,Transcending ecstasy. And still within a summer’s nightA something so transporting bright,I clap my hands to see; Then veil my too inspecting face,Lest such a subtle, shimmering graceFlutter too far for […]

A drop fell on the apple tree,Another on the roof;A half a dozen kissed the eaves,And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook,That went to help the sea.Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,What necklaces could be! The dust replaced in hoisted roads,The birds jocoser sung;The sunshine threw his hat away,The orchards […]

The butterfiy’s assumption-gown,In chrysoprase apartments hung,This afternoon put on. How condescending to descend,And be of buttercups the friendIn a New England town!

A little road not made of man,Enabled of the eye,Accessible to thill of bee,Or cart of butterfly. If town it have, beyond itself,‘T is that I cannot say;I only sigh, — no vehicleBears me along that way.

The mountain sat upon the plainIn his eternal chair,His observation omnifold,His inquest everywhere. The seasons prayed around his knees,Like children round a sire:Grandfather of the days is he,Of dawn the ancestor.

So bashful when I spied her,So pretty, so ashamed!So hidden in her leaflets,Lest anybody find; So breathless till I passed her,So helpless when I turnedAnd bore her, struggling, blushing,Her simple haunts beyond! For whom I robbed the dingle,For whom betrayed the dell,Many will doubtless ask me,But I shall never tell!

It makes no difference abroad,The seasons fit the same,The mornings blossom into noons,And split their pods of flame. Wild-flowers kindle in the woods,The brooks brag all the day;No blackbird bates his jargoningFor passing Calvary. Auto-da-fe and judgmentAre nothing to the bee;His separation from his roseTo him seems misery.

Angels in the early morningMay be seen the dews among,Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:Do the buds to them belong? Angels when the sun is hottestMay be seen the sands among,Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying;Parched the flowers they bear along.