A Solemn Thing Within the Soul, di Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

A Solemn Thing Within the Soul

483

A Solemn thing within the Soul

To feel itself get ripe—

And golden hang—while farther up—

The Maker’s Ladders stop—

And in the Orchard far below—

You hear a Being—drop—

A Wonderful—to feel the Sun

Still toiling at the Cheek

You thought was finished—

Cool of eye, and critical of Work—

He shifts the stem—a little—

To give your Core—a look—

But solemnest—to know

Your chance in Harvest moves

A little nearer—Every Sun

The Single—to some lives.

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Again—his voice is at the door—

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I Think Just How my Shape Will Rise

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72 Glowing is her Bonnet, Glowing is her Cheek, Glowing is her Kirtle, Yet she cannot speak.

The Malay—took the Pearl—

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As Sleigh Bells Seem in Summer

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South Winds Jostle Them

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I Years Had Been From Home,

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Civilization—spurns—the Leopard!

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A Wind That Rose

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No Prisoner Be

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The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants

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Nobody Knows This Little Rose

35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee.

A House Upon the Height

399 A House upon the Height— That Wagon never reached— No Dead, were ever carried down— No Peddler’s Cart—approached—

Emily Dickinson