The grass so little has to do

LX

THE GRASS so little has to do,—

A sphere of simple green,

With only butterflies to brood,

And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes

The breezes fetch along,

And hold the sunshine in its lap

And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,

And make itself so fine,—

A duchess were too common

For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass

In odors so divine,

As lowly spices gone to sleep,

Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,

And dream the days away,—

The grass so little has to do,

I wish I were a hay!

Between Lander and Hudson, Wyoming.

You've seen balloons set, haven't you?

CV

You've seen balloons set, haven’t you?

So stately they ascend

It is as swans discarded you

For duties diamond.

Their liquid feet go softly out

Upon a sea of blond;

They spurn the air as’t were to mean

For creatures so renowned.

Their ribbons just beyond the eye,

They struggle some for breath,

And yet the crowd applauds below;

They would not encore death.

The gilded creature strains and spins,

Trips frantic in a tree,

Tears open her imperial veins

And tumbles in the sea.

The crowd retire with an oath

The dust in streets goes down,

And clerks in counting-rooms observe,

“’T was only a balloon.”

Riverton, Wyoming.

South winds jostle them

XXXVIII

SOUTH winds jostle them,

Bumblebees come,

Hover, hesitate,

Drink, and are gone.

Butterflies pause

On their passage Cashmere;

I, softly plucking,

Present them here!

Near Jade Lakes, Dubois, Wyoming.

How happy is the little stone

XXXIII

How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,

And doesn’t care about careers,

And exigencies never fears;

Whose coat of elemental brown

A passing universe put on;

And independent as the sun,

Associates or glows alone,

Fulfilling absolute decree

In casual simplicity.

Near Split Rock, along the Oregon Trail, Wyoming.

Nature rarer uses yellow

XXXI.

Nature rarer uses yellow

Than another hue;

Saves she all of that for sunsets,—

Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman,

Yellow she affords

Only scantly and selectly,

Like a lover’s words.

The Green River, near Pinedale, Wyoming.

Who robbed the woods

XVII.

Who robbed the woods,

The trusting woods?

The unsuspecting trees

Brought out their burrs and mosses

His fantasy to please.

He scanned their trinkets, curious,

He grasped, he bore away.

What will the solemn hemlock,

What will the fir-tree say?

Saint Stephens Indian Mission, Saint Stephens, Wyoming.

The sun just touched the morning

V.

The sun just touched the morning,

The morning, happy thing,

Supposed that he had come to dwell,

And life would be all spring.

She felt herself supremer, -

A raised, ethereal thing;

Henceforth for her what holiday!

Meanwhile, her wheeling king

Trailed slow along the orchards

His haughty, spangled hems,

Leaving a new necessity, -

The want of diadems!

The morning fluttered, staggered,

Felt feebly for her crown, -

Her unanointed forehead

Henceforth her only one.

Lander, Wyoming.