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Nature

Emily Dickinson


NATURE, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,—
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill 5
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,— 10
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket, 15
The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky, 20

With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.
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Part Three: Love

Emily Dickinson

THE MOON is distant from the sea,
And yet with amber hands
She leads him, docile as a boy,
Along appointed sands.

He never misses a degree; 5
Obedient to her eye,
He comes just so far toward the town,
Just so far goes away.

Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,
And mine the distant sea,— 10
Obedient to the least command
Thine eyes impose on me.
From Nature
by Emily Dickinson

WILL there really be a morning?
Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies? 5
Has it feathers like a bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
Oh, some wise man from the skies! 10
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called morning lies!

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Images (1)
  • SUNRISE
From Nature
By Emily Dickinson

THE SKIES can’t keep their secret!
They tell it to the hills—
The hills just tell the orchards—
And they the daffodils!

A bird, by chance, that goes that way 5
Soft overheard the whole.
If I should bribe the little bird,
Who knows but she would tell?

I think I won’t, however,
It’s finer not to know; 10
If summer were an axiom,
What sorcery had snow?

So keep your secret, Father!
I would not, if I could,
Know what the sapphire fellows do, 15
In your new-fashioned world!

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Images (1)
  • BIRDBLUE
Fro Nature
By Emily Dickinson

SHE sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!

You dropped a purple ravelling in, 5
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you ’ve littered all the East
With duds of emerald!

And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly, 10
Till brooms fade softly into stars—
And then I come away.

Attachments

Images (1)
  • MULTICOLORSKY
Emily Dickinson

- The Lilac is an ancient shrub

The Lilac is an ancient shrub
But ancienter than that
The Firmamental Lilac
Upon the Hill tonight --
The Sun subsiding on his Course
Bequeaths this final Plant
To Contemplation -- not to Touch --
The Flower of Occident.
Of one Corolla is the West --
The Calyx is the Earth --
The Capsules burnished Seeds the Stars
The Scientist of Faith
His research has but just begun --
Above his synthesis
The Flora unimpeachable
To Time's Analysis --
"Eye hath not seen" may possibly
Be current with the Blind
But let not Revelation
By theses be detained --

Last edited by Inda
Snow-Flakes

OUT of the bosom of the Air
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
**************************

Last edited by Inda

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