Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 8
Chapter 126 of 146 · 1 min read
A murmur in the trees to note, Not loud enough for wind; A star not far enough to seek, Nor near enough to find;
A long, long yellow on the lawn, A hubbub as of feet; Not audible, as ours to us, But dapperer, more sweet;
A hurrying home of little men To houses unperceived, — All this, and more, if I should tell, Would never be believed.
Of robins in the trundle bed How many I espy Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings, Although I heard them try!
But then I promised ne'er to tell; How could I break my word? So go your way and I'll go mine, — No fear you'll miss the road.
IX.
Morning is the place for dew, Corn is made at noon, After dinner light for flowers, Dukes for setting sun!
X.
To my quick ear the leaves conferred; The bushes they were bells; I could not find a privacy From Nature's sentinels.
In cave if I presumed to hide, The walls began to tell; Creation seemed a mighty crack To make me visible.
XI.
A ROSE.
A sepal, petal, and a thorn Upon a common summer's morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breeze A caper in the trees, — And I'm a rose!
