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 fence,
It wraps it rail, by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces ;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, ~
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, ~
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

~ Emily Dickinson

[St. John's Anglican Church]