POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
And rivers where the houses ranThe living looked that day.The bell within the steeple wildThe flying tidings whirled.How much can comeAnd much can go,And yet abide the world!
XXVII
A SPIDER sewed at nightWithout a lightUpon an arc of white.If ruff it was of dameOr shroud of gnome,Himself, himself inform.Of immortalityHis strategyWas physiognomy.
XXVIII
I KNOW a place where summer strivesWith such a practised frost,She each year leads her daisies back,Recording briefly, “Lost.”
But when the south wind stirs the poolsAnd struggles in the lanes,Her heart misgives her for her vow.And she pours soft refrains
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