POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
No bone had he to bind him,His speech was like the pushOf numerous humming-birds at onceFrom a superior bush.
His countenance a billow,His fingers, if he pass,Let go a music, as of tunesBlown tremulous in glass.
He visited, still flitting;Then, like a timid man,Again he tapped — ’t was flurriedly —And I became alone.
XXXI
NATURE rarer uses yellowThan another hue;Saves she all of that for sunsets, — Prodigal of blue,
Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affordsOnly scantly and selectly, Like a lover’s words.
XXXII
THE leaves, like women, interchangeSagacious confidence;Somewhat of nods, and somewhat of Portentous inference,
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