Water, is taught by thirst.
Land -- by the Oceans passed.
Transport -- by throe --
Peace -- by its battles told --
Love, by Memorial Mold --
Birds, by the Snow.

Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so --

And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there --

Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go --

And later, in August it may be --
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!

Flowers -- Well -- if anybody
Can the ecstasy define --
Half a transport -- half a trouble --
With which flowers humble men:
Anybody find the fountain
From which floods so contra flow --
I will give him all the Daisies
Which upon the hillside blow.

Too much pathos in their faces
For a simple breast like mine --
Butterflies from St. Domingo
Cruising round the purple line --
Have a system of aesthetics --
Far superior to mine.

Pigmy seraphs -- gone astray --
Velvet people from Vevay --
Balles from some lost summer day --
Bees exclusive Coterie --
Paris could not lay the fold
Belted down with Emerald --
Venice could not show a check
Of a tint so lustrous meek --
Never such an Ambuscade
As of briar and leaf displayed
For my little damask maid --

I had rather wear her grace
Than an Earl's distinguished face --
I had rather dwell like her
Than be "Duke of Exeter" --
Royalty enough for me
To subdue the Bumblebee.

Soul, Wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost indeed --
But tens have won an all --

Angel's breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee --
Imps in eager Caucus
Raffle for my Soul!

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!

Some, too fragile for winter winds
The thoughtful grave encloses --
Tenderly tucking them in from frost
Before their feet are cold.

Never the treasures in her nest
The cautious grave exposes,
Building where schoolboy dare not look,
And sportsman is not bold.

This covert have all the children
Early aged, and often cold,
Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father --
Lambs for whom time had not a fold.

Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled --
And no one made reply.

Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again --
Whose are the beds -- the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?

'Tis Daisy, in the shortest --
A little further on --
Nearest the door -- to wake the Ist --
Little Leontoden.

'Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster --
Anemone, and Bell --
Bartsia, in the blanket red --
And chubby Daffodil.

Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied --
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.

Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids --
Rhodora's cheek is crimson,
She's dreaming of the woods!

Then turning from them reverent --
Their bedtime 'tis, she said --
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.

For every Bird a Nest --
Wherefore in timid quest
Some little Wren goes seeking round --

Wherefore when boughs are free --
Households in every tree --
Pilgrim be found?

Perhaps a home too high --
Ah Aristocracy!
The little Wren desires --

Perhaps of twig so fine --
Of twine e'en superfine,
Her pride aspires --

The Lark is not ashamed
To build upon the ground
Her modest house --

Yet who of all the throng
Dancing around the sun
Does so rejoice?