POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Perhaps the kingdom of Heaven’s changed!I hope the children thereWon’t be new-fashioned when I come,And laugh at me, and stare!
I hope the father in the skiesWill lift his little girl,—Old-fashioned, naughty, everything,—Over the stile of pearl!
XXI
AN awful tempest mashed the air,The clouds were gaunt and few;A black, as of a spectre’s cloak,Hid heaven and earth from view.
The creatures chuckled on the roofsAnd whistled in the air,And shook their fists and gnashed their teeth,And swung their frenzied hair.
The morning lit, the birds arose;The monster’s faded eyesTurned slowly to his native coast.And peace was Paradise!
XXII
AN everywhere of silver,With ropes of sandTo keep it from effacingThe track called land.
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