Poems by Emily Dickinson, Three Series, Complete · Emily Dickinson
Chapter 26
Chapter 82 of 146 · 1 min read
THE STORM.
There came a wind like a bugle; It quivered through the grass, And a green chill upon the heat So ominous did pass We barred the windows and the doors As from an emerald ghost; The doom's electric moccason That very instant passed. On a strange mob of panting trees, And fences fled away, And rivers where the houses ran The living looked that day. The bell within the steeple wild The flying tidings whirled. How much can come And much can go, And yet abide the world!
XXVII.
THE SPIDER.
A spider sewed at night Without a light Upon an arc of white. If ruff it was of dame Or shroud of gnome, Himself, himself inform. Of immortality His strategy Was physiognomy.
XXVIII.
I know a place where summer strives With such a practised frost, She each year leads her daisies back, Recording briefly, "Lost."
But when the south wind stirs the pools And struggles in the lanes, Her heart misgives her for her vow, And she pours soft refrains
Into the lap of adamant, And spices, and the dew, That stiffens quietly to quartz, Upon her amber shoe.
XXIX.
The one that could repeat the summer day Were greater than itself, though he Minutest of mankind might be. And who could reproduce the sun, At period of going down — The lingering and the stain, I mean — When Orient has been outgrown, And Occident becomes unknown, His name remain.
