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POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Each one salutes me as he goes,And I my childish plumesLift, in bereaved acknowledgmentOf their unthinking drums.
XV
A ROUTE of evanescenceWith a revolving wheel;A resonance of emerald,A rush of cochineal;And every blossom on the bushAdjusts its tumbled head,—The mail from Tunis, probably,An easy morning’s ride.
XVI
THE skies can’t keep their secret!They tell it to the hills—The hills just tell the orchards—And they the daffodils!
A bird, by chance, that goes that waySoft overheard the whole.If I should bribe the little bird.Who knows but she would tell?
I think I won’t, however,It’s finer not to know;If summer were an axiom,What sorcery had snow?
[86]
