Search Results for: poetry at work

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems L. The Snow THE SNOW. It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain, — Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again. It reaches to the […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLIX. Besides the Autumn Poets Sing NOVEMBER. Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze. A few incisive mornings, A few ascetic eyes, — Gone Mr. Bryant’s golden-rod, And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves. Still is the […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLVII. Summer’s Obsequies SUMMER’S OBSEQUIES. 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, […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLV. As Imperceptibly As Grief As imperceptibly as grief The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last, To seem like perfidy. A quietness distilled, As twilight long begun, Or Nature, spending with herself Sequestered afternoon. The dusk drew earlier in, The morning foreign shone, — A courteous, yet […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLIV. Further in Summer MY CRICKET. Further in summer than the birds, Pathetic from the grass, A minor nation celebrates Its unobtrusive mass. No ordinance is seen, So gradual the grace, A pensive custom it becomes, Enlarging loneliness. Antiquest felt at noon When August, burning low, Calls forth this […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XLII. Bring Me the Sunset Bring me the sunset in a cup, Reckon the morning’s flagons up, And say how many dew; Tell me how far the morning leaps, Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadths of blue! Write me how many notes there be […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XL. She Sweeps With Many-Colored Brooms She sweeps with many-colored brooms, And leaves the shreds behind; Oh, housewife in the evening west, Come back, and dust the pond! You dropped a purple ravelling in, You dropped an amber thread; And now you ‘ve littered all the East With duds […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXXVI. Frequently the Woods Are Pink Frequently the woods are pink, Frequently are brown; Frequently the hills undress Behind my native town. Oft a head is crested I was wont to see, And as oft a cranny Where it used to be. And the earth, they tell me, On […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXXIII. Simplicity SIMPLICITY. How happy is the little stone That rambles in the road alone, And doesn’t care about careers, And exigencies never fears; Whose coat of elemental brown A passing universe put on; And independent as the sun, Associates or glows alone, Fulfilling absolute decree In casual simplicity. […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXXI. Nature Rarer Uses Yellow Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets, — Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words. -Emily Dickinson Enjoy Artistic Representations of  “Nature Rarer Uses Yellow” […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXX. The Wind’s Visit THE WIND’S VISIT. The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, “Come in,” I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest, To offer whom a chair Were as impossible as hand A sofa to the air. No bone […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXIX. The One That Could Repeat the Summer Day The one that could repeat the summer day Were greater than itself, though he Minutest of mankind might be. And who could reproduce the sun, At period of going down — The lingering and the stain, I mean — When […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXVIII. I Know A Place Where Summer Strives I know a place where summer strives With such a practised frost, She each year leads her daisies back, Recording briefly, “Lost.” But when the south wind stirs the pools And struggles in the lanes, Her heart misgives her for her […]

< Return to Emily Dickinson Poems XXVII. A Spider THE SPIDER. A spider sewed at night Without a light Upon an arc of white. If ruff it was of dame Or shroud of gnome, Himself, himself inform. Of immortality His strategy Was physiognomy. -Emily Dickinson Enjoy Artistic Representations of  “A Spider” by Emily Dickinson   […]