The quiet nonchalance of death No daybreak can bestir; The slow archangel's syllables Must awaken her. VI. FROM THE CHRYSALIS. My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I'm feeling for the air; A dim capacity for wings Degrades the dress I wear. A power of butterfly must be The aptitude to fly, Meadows of majesty concedes And easy sweeps of sky. So I must baffle at the hint And cipher at the sign, And make much blunder, if at last I take the clew divine. VII. SETTING SAIL. Exultation is the going Of an inland soul to sea, -- Past the houses, past the headlands, Into deep eternity! Bred as we, among the mountains, Can the sailor understand The divine intoxication Of the first league out from land? VIII. Look back on time with kindly eyes, He doubtless did his best; How softly sinks his trembling sun In human nature's west! IX. A train went through a burial gate, A bird broke forth and sang, And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat Till all the churchyard rang; And then adjusted his little notes, And bowed and sang again. Doubtless, he thought it meet of him To say good-by to men. X. I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth, -- the two are one; We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names. XI. "TROUBLED ABOUT MANY THINGS." How many times these low feet staggered, Only the soldered mouth can tell; Try! can you stir the awful rivet? Try! can you lift the hasps of steel? Stroke the cool forehead, hot so often, Lift, if you can, the listless hair; Handle the adamantine fingers Never a thimble more shall wear. Buzz the dull flies on the chamber window; Brave shines the sun through the freckled pane; Fearless the cobweb swings from the ceiling -- Indolent housewife, in daisies lain! XII. REAL. I like a look of agony, Because I know it 's true; Men do not sham convulsion, Nor simulate a throe. The eyes glaze once, and that is death. Impossible to feign The beads upon the forehead By homely anguish strung. XIII. THE FUNERAL. That short, potential stir That each can make but once, That bustle so illustrious 'T is almost consequence, Is the eclat of death. Oh, thou unknown renown That not a beggar would accept, Had he the power to spurn! XIV. I went to thank her, But she slept; Her bed a funnelled stone, With nosegays at the head and foot, That travellers had thrown, Who went to thank her; But she slept. 'T was short to cross the sea To look upon her like, alive, But turning back 't was slow. XV.