"As imperceptibly as Grief" by Emily Dickinson

Sarah Ross

As imperceptibly as Grief

The Summer lapsed away—

Too imperceptible at last,

To seem like Perfidy—

A Quietness distilled

As Twilight long begun

Or Nature spending with herself

Sequestered Afternoon—

The Dusk drew earlier in—

The Morning foreign shone—

A courteous, yet harrowing Grace,

As Guest, that would be gone—

And thus, without a Wing

Or service of a Keel

Our Summer made her light escape

Into the Beautiful.

November and Norway

"November always seemed to me the Norway of the year."  --  Emily Dickinson

"Mother Nature" by Emily Dickinson

Nature, the gentlest mother,

Impatient of no child,

The feeblest or the waywardest, —

Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill

By traveller is heard,

Restraining rampant squirrel

Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,

A summer afternoon, —

Her household, her assembly;

And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles

Incites the timid prayer

Of the minutest cricket,

The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep

She turns as long away

As will suffice to light her lamps;

Then, bending from the sky

With infinite affection

And infiniter care,

Her golden finger on her lip,

Wills silence everywhere.

Happy Mother's Day.

"It will be Summer -- eventually" (#342) by Emily Dickinson

"Sunday on La Grande Jatte" by Georges Seurat

It will be Summer -- eventually.

Ladies -- with parasols --

Sauntering Gentlemen -- with Canes

And little Girls -- with Dolls --

Will tint the pallid landscape --

As 'twere a bright Bouquet --

Tho' drifted deep, in Parian --

The Village lies -- today --

The Lilacs -- bending many a year --

Will sway with purple load --

The Bees -- will not despise the tune --

Their Forefathers  -- have hummed --

The Wild Rose -- redden in the Bog --

The Aster -- on the Hill

Her everlasting fashion -- set --

And Covenant Gentians -- frill --

Till Summer folds her miracle --

As Women -- do -- their Gown --

Or priests -- adjust the Symbols --

When Sacrament -- is done --

"It will be Summer -- eventually" (#342) by Emily Dickinson,

from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. © Back Bay Books, 1960.

"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 —