Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 3
Chapter 39 of 146 · 1 min read
The nearest dream recedes, unrealized. The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover — Dips — evades — teases — deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies not That brews that rare variety.
IV.
We play at paste, Till qualified for pearl, Then drop the paste, And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar, And our new hands Learned gem-tactics Practising sands.
V.
I found the phrase to every thought I ever had, but one; And that defies me, — as a hand Did try to chalk the sun
To races nurtured in the dark; — How would your own begin? Can blaze be done in cochineal, Or noon in mazarin?
VI.
HOPE.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.
I 've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
