Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 7

Unties her yellow bonnet Beneath the village door, Until the bees, from clover rows Their hock and sherry draw,

Why, I will lend until just then, But not an hour more!

V.

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

VI.

A SERVICE OF SONG.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church; I keep it staying at home, With a bobolink for a chorister, And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice; I just wear my wings, And instead of tolling the bell for church, Our little s.e.xton sings.

G.o.d preaches, -- a noted clergyman, -- And the sermon is never long; So instead of getting to heaven at last, I'm going all along!

VII.

The bee is not afraid of me, I know the b.u.t.terfly; The pretty people in the woods Receive me cordially.

The brooks laugh louder when I come, The breezes madder play.

Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists?

Wherefore, O summer's day?

VIII.

SUMMER'S ARMIES.

Some rainbow coming from the fair!

Some vision of the world Cashmere I confidently see!

Or else a peac.o.c.k's purple train, Feather by feather, on the plain Fritters itself away!

The dreamy b.u.t.terflies bestir, Lethargic pools resume the whir Of last year's sundered tune.

From some old fortress on the sun Baronial bees march, one by one, In murmuring platoon!

The robins stand as thick to-day As flakes of snow stood yesterday, On fence and roof and twig.

The orchis binds her feather on For her old lover, Don the Sun, Revisiting the bog!

Without commander, countless, still, The regiment of wood and hill In bright detachment stand.

Behold! Whose mult.i.tudes are these?

The children of whose turbaned seas, Or what Circa.s.sian land?

IX.

THE GRa.s.s.

The gra.s.s so little has to do, -- A sphere of simple green, With only b.u.t.terflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the suns.h.i.+ne in its lap And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine, -- A d.u.c.h.ess were too common For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pa.s.s In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away, -- The gra.s.s so little has to do, I wish I were the hay!

X.

A little road not made of man, Enabled of the eye, Accessible to thill of bee, Or cart of b.u.t.terfly.

If town it have, beyond itself, 'T is that I cannot say; I only 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!