Poems of Emily Dickinson, series 1 | Page 8

sigh, -- no vehicle?Bears me along that way.
XI.
SUMMER SHOWER.
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 help the brook,?That went to help the sea.?Myself conjectured, Were they pearls,?What necklaces could be!
The dust replaced in hoisted roads,?The birds jocoser sung;?The sunshine threw his hat away,?The orchards spangles hung.
The breezes brought dejected lutes,?And bathed them in the glee;?The East put out a single flag,?And signed the fete away.
XII.
PSALM OF THE DAY.
A something in a summer's day,?As sIow her flambeaux burn away,?Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer's noon, --?An azure depth, a wordless tune,?Transcending ecstasy.
And still within a summer's night?A something so transporting bright,?I clap my hands to see;
Then veil my too inspecting face,?Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace?Flutter too far for me.
The wizard-fingers never rest,?The purple brook within the breast?Still chafes its narrow bed;
Still rears the East her amber flag,?Guides still the sun along the crag?His caravan of red,
Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,?But never deemed the dripping prize?Awaited their low brows;
Or bees, that thought the summer's name?Some rumor of delirium?No summer could for them;
Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred?By tropic hint, -- some travelled bird?Imported to the wood;
Or wind's bright signal to the ear,?Making that homely and severe,?Contented, known, before
The heaven unexpected came,?To lives that thought their worshipping?A too presumptuous psalm.
XIII.
THE SEA OF SUNSET.
This is the land the sunset washes,?These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;?Where it rose, or whither it rushes,?These are the western mystery!
Night after night her purple traffic?Strews the landing with opal bales;?Merchantmen poise upon horizons,?Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.
XIV.
PURPLE CLOVER.
There is a flower that bees prefer,?And butterflies desire;?To gain the purple democrat?The humming-birds aspire.
And whatsoever insect pass,?A honey bears away?Proportioned to his several dearth?And her capacity.
Her face is rounder than the moon,?And ruddier than the gown?Of orchis in the pasture,?Or rhododendron worn.
She doth not wait for June;?Before the world is green?Her sturdy little countenance?Against the wind is seen,
Contending with the grass,?Near kinsman to herself,?For privilege of sod and sun,?Sweet litigants for life.
And when the hills are full,?And newer fashions blow,?Doth not retract a single spice?For pang of jealousy.
Her public is the noon,?Her providence the sun,?Her progress by the bee proclaimed?In sovereign, swerveless tune.
The bravest of the host,?Surrendering the last,?Nor even of defeat aware?When cancelled by the frost.
XV.
THE BEE.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush?I hear the level bee:?A jar across the flowers goes,?Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault?Their chivalry consumes,?While he, victorious, tilts away?To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,?His helmet is of gold;?His breast, a single onyx?With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant,?His idleness a tune;?Oh, for a bee's experience?Of clovers and of noon!
XVI.
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn?Indicative that suns go down;?The notice to the startled grass?That darkness is about to pass.
XVII.
As children bid the guest good-night,?And then reluctant turn,?My flowers raise their pretty lips,?Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake,?Merry that it is morn,?My flowers from a hundred cribs?Will peep, and prance again.
XVIII.
Angels in the early morning?May be seen the dews among,?Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying:?Do the buds to them belong?
Angels when the sun is hottest?May be seen the sands among,?Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying;?Parched the flowers they bear along.
XIX.
So bashful when I spied her,?So pretty, so ashamed!?So hidden in her leaflets,?Lest anybody find;
So breathless till I passed her,?So helpless when I turned?And bore her, struggling, blushing,?Her simple haunts beyond!
For whom I robbed the dingle,?For whom betrayed the dell,?Many will doubtless ask me,?But I shall never tell!
XX.
TWO WORLDS.
It makes no difference abroad,?The seasons fit the same,?The mornings blossom into noons,?And split their pods of flame.
Wild-flowers kindle in the woods,?The brooks brag all the day;?No blackbird bates his jargoning?For passing Calvary.
Auto-da-fe and judgment?Are nothing to the bee;?His separation from his rose?To him seems misery.
XXI.
THE MOUNTAIN.
The mountain sat upon the plain?In his eternal chair,?His observation omnifold,?His inquest everywhere.
The seasons prayed around his knees,?Like children round a sire:?Grandfather of the days is he,?Of dawn the ancestor.
XXII.
A DAY.
I'll tell you how the sun rose, --?A ribbon at a time.?The steeples swam in amethyst,?The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,?The bobolinks begun.?Then I said softly to myself,?"That must have been the sun!"
? * *
But how he set, I know not.?There seemed a purple stile?Which little yellow boys and girls?Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side,?A dominie in gray?Put gently up the evening bars,?And led the flock away.
XXIII.
The butterfiy's assumption-gown,?In chrysoprase apartments hung,?This afternoon put on.
How condescending to descend,?And be of buttercups the friend?In a New England town!
XXIV.
THE WIND.
Of all the sounds despatched abroad,?There's not a charge to me?Like that old measure in the boughs,?That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand?Whose fingers brush the sky,?Then quiver down, with tufts of tune?Permitted gods and me.
When winds go