161 a feather from the Whippoorwill, par Emily Dickinson

161 a feather from the Whippoorwill

A feather from the Whippoorwill

That everlasting—sings!

Whose galleries—are Sunrise—

Whose Opera—the Springs—

Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin

Of mellow—murmuring thread—

Whose Beryl Egg, what Schoolboys hunt

In “Recess”—Overhead!

968 Fitter to see Him, I may be For the long Hindrance—Grace—to… With Summers, and with Winters, g… Some passing Year—A trait bestow

I died for beauty but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was la… In an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed…

Part Five: The Single Hound XLIX The duties of the Wind are few— To cast the ships, at Sea, Establish March, the Floods escor…

We like March, his shoes are purp… He is new and high; Makes he mud for dog and peddler, Makes he forest dry; Knows the adder’s tongue his comin…

1068 Further in Summer than the Birds Pathetic from the Grass A minor Nation celebrates Its unobtrusive Mass.

The Soul unto itself Is an imperial friend— Or the most agonizing Spy— An Enemy—could send— Secure against its own—

The Grass so little has to do ' A Sphere of simple Green ' With only Butterflies to brood And Bees to entertain ' And stir all day to pretty Tunes

284 The Drop, that wrestles in the Se… Forgets her own locality— As I—toward Thee— She knows herself an incense small…

479 She dealt her pretty words like B… How glittering they shone— And every One unbared a Nerve Or wantoned with a Bone—

539 The Province of the Saved Should be the Art—To save— Through Skill obtained in Themsel… The Science of the Grave

264 A Weight with Needles on the poun… To push, and pierce, besides— That if the Flesh resist the Heft… The puncture—coolly tries—

Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets,… Prodigal of blue, Spending scarlet like a woman,

84 Her breast is fit for pearls, But I was not a “Diver”— Her brow is fit for thrones But I have not a crest.

The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, ‘Come in,’ I boldly answered; entered then My residence within A rapid, footless guest,

44 If she had been the Mistletoe And I had been the Rose— How gay upon your table My velvet life to close—