POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I’ve known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.
XIV
SOME things that fly there be,—
Birds, hours, the bumble–bee:
Of these no elegy.
Birds, hours, the bumble–bee:
Of these no elegy.
Some things that stay there be,—
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.
There are, that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!
XV
I KNOW some lonely houses off the road
A robber’d like the look of,—
Wooden barred,
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to
A portico,
A robber’d like the look of,—
Wooden barred,
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to
A portico,
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