Day’s Parlor. By Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

 The day came slow, till five o’clock,
    Then sprang before the hills
    Like hindered rubies, or the light
    A sudden musket spills.

    The purple could not keep the east,
    The sunrise shook from fold,
    Like breadths of topaz, packed a night,
    The lady just unrolled.

    The happy winds their timbrels took;
    The birds, in docile rows,
    Arranged themselves around their prince
    (The wind is prince of those).

    The orchard sparkled like a Jew, —
    How mighty ‘t was, to stay
    A guest in this stupendous place,
    The parlor of the day!