Poems by Emily Dickinson Part 8

The dust replaced in hoisted roads, The birds jocoser sung; The suns.h.i.+ne threw his hat away, The orchards spangles hung.

The breezes brought dejected lutes, And bathed them in the glee; The East put out a single flag, And signed the fete away.

XII.

PSALM OF THE DAY.

A something in a summer's day, As slow her flambeaux burn away, Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer's noon, -- An azure depth, a wordless tune, Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer's night A something so transporting bright, I clap my hands to see;

Then veil my too inspecting face, Lest such a subtle, s.h.i.+mmering grace Flutter too far for me.

The wizard-fingers never rest, The purple brook within the breast Still chafes its narrow bed;

Still rears the East her amber flag, Guides still the sun along the crag His caravan of red,

Like flowers that heard the tale of dews, But never deemed the dripping prize Awaited their low brows;

Or bees, that thought the summer's name Some rumor of delirium No summer could for them;

Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred By tropic hint, -- some travelled bird Imported to the wood;

Or wind's bright signal to the ear, Making that homely and severe, Contented, known, before

The heaven unexpected came, To lives that thought their wors.h.i.+pping A too presumptuous psalm.

XIII.

THE SEA OF SUNSET.

This is the land the sunset washes, These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; Where it rose, or whither it rushes, These are the western mystery!

Night after night her purple traffic Strews the landing with opal bales; Merchantmen poise upon horizons, Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

XIV.

PURPLE CLOVER.

There is a flower that bees prefer, And b.u.t.terflies desire; To gain the purple democrat The humming-birds aspire.

And whatsoever insect pa.s.s, A honey bears away Proportioned to his several dearth And her capacity.

Her face is rounder than the moon, And ruddier than the gown Of orchis in the pasture, Or rhododendron worn.

She doth not wait for June; Before the world is green Her st.u.r.dy little countenance Against the wind is seen,

Contending with the gra.s.s, Near kinsman to herself, For privilege of sod and sun, Sweet litigants for life.

And when the hills are full, And newer fas.h.i.+ons blow, Doth not retract a single spice For pang of jealousy.

Her public is the noon, Her providence the sun, Her progress by the bee proclaimed In sovereign, swerveless tune.

The bravest of the host, Surrendering the last, Nor even of defeat aware When cancelled by the frost.

XV.

THE BEE.

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet a.s.sault Their chivalry consumes, While he, victorious, tilts away To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze, His helmet is of gold; His breast, a single onyx With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon!

XVI.

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled gra.s.s That darkness is about to pa.s.s.

XVII.