Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 9

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 pa.s.sed her, So helpless when I turned And bore her, struggling, blus.h.i.+ng, 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 pa.s.sing 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 b.u.t.terfly's a.s.sumption-gown, In chrysoprase apartments hung, This afternoon put on.

How condescending to descend, And be of b.u.t.tercups 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 G.o.ds and me.

When winds go round and round in bands, And thrum upon the door, And birds take places overhead, To bear them orchestra,

I crave him grace, of summer boughs, If such an outcast be, He never heard that fleshless chant Rise solemn in the tree,