Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 52

MARCH.

We like March, his shoes are purple, He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder's tongue his coming, And begets her spot.

Stands the sun so close and mighty That our minds are hot.

News is he of all the others; Bold it were to die With the blue-birds buccaneering On his British sky.

VII.

DAWN.

Not knowing when the dawn will come I open every door; Or has it feathers like a bird, Or billows like a sh.o.r.e?

VIII.

A murmur in the trees to note, Not loud enough for wind; A star not far enough to seek, Nor near enough to find;

A long, long yellow on the lawn, A hubbub as of feet; Not audible, as ours to us, But dapperer, more sweet;

A hurrying home of little men To houses unperceived, -- All this, and more, if I should tell, Would never be believed.

Of robins in the trundle bed How many I espy Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings, Although I heard them try!

But then I promised ne'er to tell; How could I break my word?

So go your way and I'll go mine, -- No fear you'll miss the road.

IX.

Morning is the place for dew, Corn is made at noon, After dinner light for flowers, Dukes for setting sun!

X.

To my quick ear the leaves conferred; The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy From Nature's sentinels.

In cave if I presumed to hide, The walls began to tell; Creation seemed a mighty crack To make me visible.

XI.

A ROSE.

A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer's morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breeze A caper in the trees, -- And I'm a rose!

XII.

High from the earth I heard a bird; He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly Upon a pile of wind Which in a perturbation Nature had left behind.

A joyous-going fellow I gathered from his talk, Which both of benediction And badinage partook, Without apparent burden, I learned, in leafy wood He was the faithful father Of a dependent brood; And this untoward transport His remedy for care, -- A contrast to our respites.

How different we are!

XIII.

COBWEBS.

The spider as an artist Has never been employed Though his surpa.s.sing merit Is freely certified

By every broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian land.

Neglected son of genius, I take thee by the hand.

XIV.

A WELL.

What mystery pervades a well!

The water lives so far, Like neighbor from another world Residing in a jar.

The gra.s.s does not appear afraid; I often wonder he Can stand so close and look so bold At what is dread to me.

Related somehow they may be, -- The sedge stands next the sea, Where he is floorless, yet of fear No evidence gives he.

But nature is a stranger yet; The ones that cite her most Have never pa.s.sed her haunted house, Nor simplified her ghost.