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POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Meanwhile at many cradlesHer busy foot she plied,Humming the quaintest lullabyThat ever rocked a child.
“Hush! Epigea wakens!The crocus stirs her lids,Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,—She’s dreaming of the woods.”
Then, turning from them, reverent,“Their bed-time ’t is,” she said;“The bumble-bees will wake themWhen April woods are red.”
XI
PIGMY seraphs gone astray,Velvet people from Vevay,Belles from some lost summer day,Bees’ exclusive coterie.Paris could not lay the foldBelted down with emerald;Venice could not show a cheekOf a tint so lustrous meek.Never such an ambuscadeAs of brier and leaf displayedFor my little damask maid.I had rather wear her graceThan an earl’s distinguished face;
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