Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 11
Chapter 72 of 146 · 1 min read
MY ROSE.
Pigmy seraphs gone astray, Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bees' exclusive coterie. Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald; Venice could not show a cheek Of a tint so lustrous meek. Never such an ambuscade As of brier and leaf displayed For my little damask maid. I had rather wear her grace Than an earl's distinguished face; I had rather dwell like her Than be Duke of Exeter Royalty enough for me To subdue the bumble-bee!
XII.
THE ORIOLE'S SECRET.
To hear an oriole sing May be a common thing, Or only a divine.
It is not of the bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto crowd.
The fashion of the ear Attireth that it hear In dun or fair.
So whether it be rune, Or whether it be none, Is of within;
The "tune is in the tree," The sceptic showeth me; "No, sir! In thee!"
