Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 12
Chapter 127 of 146 · 1 min read
High from the earth I heard a bird; He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles, And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly Upon a pile of wind Which in a perturbation Nature had left behind. A joyous-going fellow I gathered from his talk, Which both of benediction And badinage partook, Without apparent burden, I learned, in leafy wood He was the faithful father Of a dependent brood; And this untoward transport His remedy for care, — A contrast to our respites. How different we are!
XIII.
COBWEBS.
The spider as an artist Has never been employed Though his surpassing merit Is freely certified
By every broom and Bridget Throughout a Christian land. Neglected son of genius, I take thee by the hand.
