Not as Strangers Do with Hat in Hand

A silence which if uttered would discourage
Nature, causing pathetic birds to flee their grass
headlong as though,
            as though the Serpent turned
into the Garden and it was her garden,
the very same. This Being so, Silence still
was poem underscoring any words, counter
pointed them
         yet was nonetheless the subtle,
guise of Mister Wadsworth or Mister Lord or even
on occasion Mister Higginson entering Amherst

gardens where Emily waited, finger in book,
to draw his attention smilingly grave:
When we have run our passion's heat
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so
            —What did he think
of that, sir? Only that she might laurel grow?