A Spring Bouquet of Poetry III
In celebration of the first day of Spring.
A dozen poems by Emily Dickinson.
Spring's first conviction is a wealth
beyond its whole experience.
Spring is the Period
Express from God.
Among the other seasons
But during March and April
None stir abroad
Without a cordial interview
Spring is a happiness so beautiful,
so unique, so unexpected,
that I don't know what to do with my heart.
I dare not take it,
I dare not leave it —
What do you advise?
A Lady red — amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms —
Sweep vale — and hill — and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird —
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the "Resurrection"
Were nothing very strange!
I have seen one Bird and part of another —
probably the last,
for Gibraltar's Feathers would be dismayed
by this savage Air —
beautiful, too, ensnaring —
as Spring always is.
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 today
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 Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas —
Or what Circassian Land?
A little Madness in the Spring
Is wholesome even for the King,
But God be with the Clown —
Who ponders this tremendous scene —
This whole Experiment of Green —
As if it were his own!
An altered look about the hills —
A Tyrian light the village fills —
A wider sunrise in the morn —
A deeper twilight on the lawn —
A print of a vermillion foot —
A purple finger on the slope —
A flippant fly upon the pane —
A spider at his trade again —
An added strut in Chanticleer —
A flower expected everywhere —
An axe shrill singing in the woods —
Fern odors on untravelled roads —
All this and more I cannot tell —
A furtive look you know as well —
And Nicodemus' Mystery
Receives its annual reply!
Spring comes on the World —
I sight the Aprils —
Hueless to me until thou come
As, till the Bee
Blossoms stand negative,
Touched to Conditions
By a Hum.
The Violets are by my side,
the Robin very near,
and "Spring" — they say,
Who is she —
going by the door —
Indeed it is God's house —
and these are gates of Heaven,
and to and fro,
the angels go,
with their sweet postillions —
I cannot meet the Spring unmoved —
I feel the old desire —
A Hurry with a lingering, mixed,
A Warrant to be fair —
A Competition in my sense
With something hid in Her —
And as she vanishes,
Remorse I saw no more of Her.
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
CP: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (1960), ed. Thomas H. Johnson, pp. 407, 38f, 33f, 577f, 65f, 476, 479, 395.
NP: New Poems of Emily Dickinson (1993), ed. William H. Shurr, pp. 35, 49, 90, 40.
See also these:
P.S. Thanks, Amanda.
Lane Core Jr. CIW P Wed. 03/21/07 06:50:19 AM
Categorized as Literary.