Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 53

To pity those that know her not Is helped by the regret That those who know her, know her less The nearer her they get.

XV.

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, -- One clover, and a bee, And revery.

The revery alone will do If bees are few.

XVI.

THE WIND.

It's like the light, -- A fas.h.i.+onless delight It's like the bee, -- A dateless melody.

It's like the woods, Private like breeze, Phraseless, yet it stirs The proudest trees.

It's like the morning, -- Best when it's done, -- The everlasting clocks Chime noon.

XVII.

A dew sufficed itself And satisfied a leaf, And felt, 'how vast a destiny!

How trivial is life!'

The sun went out to work, The day went out to play, But not again that dew was seen By physiognomy.

Whether by day abducted, Or emptied by the sun Into the sea, in pa.s.sing, Eternally unknown.

XVIII.

THE WOODp.e.c.k.e.r.

His bill an auger is, His head, a cap and frill.

He laboreth at every tree, -- A worm his utmost goal.

XIX.

A SNAKE.

Sweet is the swamp with its secrets, Until we meet a snake; 'T is then we sigh for houses, And our departure take At that enthralling gallop That only childhood knows.

A snake is summer's treason, And guile is where it goes.

XX.

Could I but ride indefinite, As doth the meadow-bee, And visit only where I liked, And no man visit me,

And flirt all day with b.u.t.tercups, And marry whom I may, And dwell a little everywhere, Or better, run away

With no police to follow, Or chase me if I do, Till I should jump peninsulas To get away from you, --

I said, but just to be a bee Upon a raft of air, And row in nowhere all day long, And anchor off the bar,-- What liberty! So captives deem Who tight in dungeons are.

XXI.

THE MOON.

The moon was but a chin of gold A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face Upon the world below.

Her forehead is of amplest blond; Her cheek like beryl stone; Her eye unto the summer dew The likest I have known.

Her lips of amber never part; But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be But the remotest star!

For certainly her way might pa.s.s Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament, The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt, Her dimities of blue.

XXII.