The gentian weaves her fringes, The maple’s loom is red. My departing blossoms Obviate parade. A brief, but patient illness, An hour to prepare; And one, below this morning, Is where the angels are. It was a short procession, — The bobolink was there, An aged bee addressed us, And then we knelt in prayer. We trust that she was willing, — We ask that…
Summer’s Armies. By Emily Dickinson
Some rainbow coming from the fair! Some vision of the world Cashmere I confidently see! Or else a peacock’s purple train, Feather by feather, on the plain Fritters itself away!…
Summer Shower. By Emily Dickinson
A drop fell on the apple tree, Another on the roof; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to…
Success. By Emily Dickinson
[Published in “A Masque of Poets” at the request of “H.H.,” the author’s fellow-townswoman and friend.] Success is counted sweetest By those who ne’er succeed. To comprehend…
Storm. By Emily Dickinson
It sounded as if the streets were running, And then the streets stood still. Eclipse was all we could see at the window, And awe was all we…
Song. By Emily Dickinson
Summer for thee grant I may be When summer days are flown! Thy music still when whippoorwill And oriole are done! For thee to bloom, I’ll skip the…
Some, Too Fragile For Winter Winds, By Emily Dickinson
Some, too fragile for winter winds, The thoughtful grave encloses, — Tenderly tucking them in from frost Before their feet are cold. Never the treasures in her nest The…
So Proud She Was To Die By Emily Dickinson
So proud she was to die It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown To her desire seemed. So satisfied to go Where none of us…
Sleeping. By Emily Dickinson
A long, long sleep, a famous sleep That makes no show for dawn By stretch of limb or stir of lid, — An independent one. Was ever idleness…
Sleep Is Supposed To Be, By Emily Dickinson
Sleep is supposed to be, By souls of sanity, The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand Down which on either hand The hosts of witness stand!…