Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 15
Chapter 22 of 146 · 1 min read
THE BEE.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet assault Their chivalry consumes, While he, victorious, tilts away To vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze, His helmet is of gold; His breast, a single onyx With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon!
XVI.
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
XVII.
As children bid the guest good-night, And then reluctant turn, My flowers raise their pretty lips, Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake, Merry that it is morn, My flowers from a hundred cribs Will peep, and prance again.
XVIII.
Angels in the early morning May be seen the dews among, Stooping, plucking, smiling, flying: Do the buds to them belong?
Angels when the sun is hottest May be seen the sands among, Stooping, plucking, sighing, flying; Parched the flowers they bear along.
XIX.
So bashful when I spied her, So pretty, so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets, Lest anybody find;
So breathless till I passed her, So helpless when I turned And bore her, struggling, blushing, Her simple haunts beyond!
For whom I robbed the dingle, For whom betrayed the dell, Many will doubtless ask me, But I shall never tell!
XX.
TWO WORLDS.
It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame.
Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day; No blackbird bates his jargoning For passing Calvary.
Auto-da-fe and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.
XXI.
THE MOUNTAIN.
The mountain sat upon the plain In his eternal chair, His observation omnifold, His inquest everywhere.
The seasons prayed around his knees, Like children round a sire: Grandfather of the days is he, Of dawn the ancestor.
