She bore it till the simple veins
Traced azure on her hand --
Til pleading, round her quiet eyes
The purple Crayons stand.

Till Daffodils had come and gone
I cannot tell the sum,
And then she ceased to bear it --
And with the Saints sat down.

No more her patient figure
At twilight soft to meet --
No more her timid bonnet
Upon the village street --

But Crowns instead, and Courtiers --
And in the midst so fair,
Whose but her shy -- immortal face
Of whom we're whispering here?

This heart that broke so long --
These feet that never flagged --
This faith that watched for star in vain,
Give gently to the dead --

Hound cannot overtake the Hare
That fluttered panting, here --
Nor any schoolboy rob the nest
Tenderness builded there.

On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair --

So quiet -- Oh how quiet,
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer -- to and fro --

On such a dawn, or such a dawn --
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie

For Chanticleer to wake it --
Or stirring house below --
Or giddy bird in orchard --
Or early task to do?

There was a little figure plump
For every little knoll --
Busy needles, and spools of thread --
And trudging feet from school --

Playmates, and holidays, and nuts --
And visions vast and small --
Strange that the feet so precious charged
Should reach so small a goal!

Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast --
Grant God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest!

Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white --
I should not fear the foe then --
I should not fear the fight!

All overgrown by cunning moss,
All interspersed with weed,
The little cage of "Currer Bell"
In quiet "Haworth" laid.

Gathered from many wanderings --
Gethsemane can tell
Thro' what transporting anguish
She reached the Asphodel!

Soft falls the sounds of Eden
Upon her puzzled ear --
Oh what an afternoon for Heaven,
When "Bronte" entered there!

She went as quiet as the Dew
From an Accustomed flower.
Not like the Dew, did she return
At the Accustomed hour!

She dropt as softly as a star
From out my summer's Eve --
Less skillful than Le Verriere
It's sorer to believe!

She died -- this was the way she died.
And when her breath was done
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The Angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.

Mute thy Coronation --
Meek my Vive le roi,
Fold a tiny courtier
In thine Ermine, Sir,
There to rest revering
Till the pageant by,
I can murmur broken,
Master, It was I --

The Sun kept stooping -- stooping -- low!
The Hills to meet him rose!
On his side, what Transaction!
On their side, what Repose!

Deeper and deeper grew the stain
Upon the window pane --
Thicker and thicker stood the feet
Until the Tyrian

Was crowded dense with Armies --
So gay, so Brigadier --
That I felt martial stirrings
Who once the Cockade wore --

Charged from my chimney corner --
But Nobody was there!

Dust is the only Secret --
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his "native town."

Nobody know "his Father" --
Never was a Boy --
Hadn't any playmates,
Or "Early history" --

Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!
Stiller than a Fleet!

Builds, like a Bird, too!
Christ robs the Nest --
Robin after Robin
Smuggled to Rest!

Except to Heaven, she is nought.
Except for Angels -- lone.
Except to some wide-wandering Bee
A flower superfluous blown.

Except for winds -- provincial.
Except by Butterflies
Unnoticed as a single dew
That on the Acre lies.

The smallest Housewife in the grass,
Yet take her from the Lawn
And somebody has lost the face
That made Existence -- Home!