Monday, February 6, 2012

"311," by Emily Dickinson


It sifts from Leaden Sieves —
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road —



It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain, and of Plain —
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again —



It reaches to the Fence —
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces —
It deals Celestial Veil



To Stump, and Stack — and Stem —
A Summer’s empty Room —
Acres of Joints, where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them —



It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen —
Then stills its Artisans — like Ghosts —
Denying they have been —

1 comment:

  1. It amazes me the way she saw things. Then the talent to turn her thoughts into song. Great accompanying photos.

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