by Emily Dickinson
It sifts from leaden sieves,
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.
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E.D. From a daguerreotype ~ Wikipedia |
~ Emily Dickinson (December 10, 1830 - May 15, 1886) American poet. It was not until 1890 after Emily's death that her poetry was published. It was not until 1955 that it was published complete and unedited. ~ Wikipedia.