The Juggler Of Day. By Emily Dickinson

    Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,
    Leaping like leopards to the sky,
    Then at the feet of the old horizon
    Laying her spotted face, to die;

    Stooping as low as the otter’s window,
    Touching the roof and tinting the barn,
    Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, —
    And the juggler of day is gone!