Poems by Emily Dickinson - BestLightNovel.com
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III. NATURE.
I.
NATURE'S CHANGES.
The springtime's pallid landscape Will glow like bright bouquet, Though drifted deep in parian The village lies to-day.
The lilacs, bending many a year, With purple load will hang; The bees will not forget the tune Their old forefathers sang.
The rose will redden in the bog, The aster on the hill Her everlasting fas.h.i.+on set, And covenant gentians frill,
Till summer folds her miracle As women do their gown, Or priests adjust the symbols When sacrament is done.
II.
THE TULIP.
She slept beneath a tree Remembered but by me.
I touched her cradle mute; She recognized the foot, Put on her carmine suit, -- And see!
III.
A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period.
When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad On solitary hills That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn; It shows the furthest tree Upon the furthest slope we know; It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step, Or noons report away, Without the formula of sound, It pa.s.ses, and we stay:
A quality of loss Affecting our content, As trade had suddenly encroached Upon a sacrament.
IV.
THE WAKING YEAR.
A lady red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field In placid lily sleeps!
The tidy breezes with their brooms Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!
Prithee, my pretty housewives!
Who may expected be?
The neighbors do not yet suspect!
The woods exchange a smile -- Orchard, and b.u.t.tercup, and bird -- In such a little while!
And yet how still the landscape stands, How nonchalant the wood, As if the resurrection Were nothing very odd!
V.
TO MARCH.
Dear March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat -- You must have walked -- How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell!
I got your letter, and the birds'; The maples never knew That you were coming, -- I declare, How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me -- And all those hills You left for me to hue; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.
Who knocks? That April!
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial As soon as you have come, That blame is just as dear as praise And praise as mere as blame.
VI.
