NATURE
As if it tarried always;And yet its whole careerIs shorter than a snake’s delay.And fleeter than a tare.
’T is vegetation’s juggler,The germ of alibi;Doth like a bubble antedate,And like a bubble hie.
I feel as if the grass were pleasedTo have it intermit;The surreptitious scionOf summer’s circumspect.
Had nature any outcast face,Could she a son contemn,Had nature an Iscariot,That mushroom, — it is him.
XXVI
THERE came a wind like a bugle;It quivered through the grass,And a green chill upon the heatSo ominous did passWe barred the windows and the doorsAs from an emerald ghost;The doom’s electric moccasonThat very instant passed.On a strange mob of panting trees,And fences fled away,
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