I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town –
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down –
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig –
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!
Written late 1858, in Fascicle 2 – the first of three poems to have a title!
This is so sweet, so joyous – the innocence with which nature elicits joy.
Prig – a self-righteously moralistic person who behaves as if they are superior to others.
Written summer 1858. I was told that I sound a bit sad reading these – I’m not, really, maybe just reverent with them as I find my voice in reading her work. This one is a certainly a bit happier. Enjoy –
There is a morn by men unseen –
Whose maids opon remoter green
Keep their seraphic May –
And all day long, with dance and game,
And gambol I may never name –
Employ their holiday.
Here to light measure, move the feet
Which walk no more the village street –
Nor by the wood are found –
Here are the birds that sought the sun
When last year’s distaff idle hung
And summer’s brows were bound.
Ne’er saw I such a wondrous scene –
Ne’er such a ring on such a green –
Nor so serene array –
As if the stars some summer night
Should swing their cups of Chrysolite –
And revel till the day –
Like thee to dance – like thee to sing –
People opon that mystic green –
I ask, each new May morn.
I wait thy far – fantastic bells –
Announcing me in other dells –
Unto the different dawn!