POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
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!
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
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.
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.”
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
And struggles in the lanes,
Her heart misgives her for her vow.
And she pours soft refrains
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