large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb_22
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
Remit as yet no grace, No furrow on the glow, Yet a druidic difference Enhances nature now. REMIT AS YET NO GRACE NO FURROW ON THE GLOW YET A DRUIDIC DIFFERENCE ENHANCES NATURE NOW
 laid the rainbow's piers, Also, who leads the docile spheres By withes of supple blue? Whose fingers string the stalactite, Who counts the wampum of the night, To see that none is due? Who built this little Alban house And shut the windows down so close My spirit cannot see? Who 'll let me out some gala day, With implements to fly away, Passing pomposity? XLIII. THE JUGGLER OF DAY. Blazing in gold and quenching in purple, Leaping like leopards to the sky, Then at the feet of the old horizon Laying her spotted face, to die; Stooping as low as the otter's window, Touching the roof and tinting the barn, Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, -- And the juggler of day is gone! XLIV. MY CRICKET. Farther in summer than the birds, Pathetic from the grass, A minor nation celebrates Its unobtrusive mass. No ordinance is seen, So gradual the grace, A pensive custom it becomes, Enlarging loneliness. Antiquest felt at noon When August, burning low, Calls forth this spectral canticle, Repose to typify. BAUCHEE OF DEWS ALSO WHO LAID THE RAINBOW'S PEERS ALSO WHO LEADS THE DOCILE SPHERES BY WITHES OF SUPPLE BLUE WHOSE FINGERS STRIKE THE STALACT TIGHT WHO COUNTS THE WAMPUM OF THE NIGHT TO SEE THAT NONE IS DUE WHO BUILT THIS LITTLE ALBAN HOUSE AND SHUT THE WINDOWS DOWN SO CLOSE MY SPIRIT CANNOT SEE WHO'LL LET ME OUT SOME GALA DAY WITH IMPLEMENTS TO FLY AWAY PASSING POMPOSITY FORTY THREE THE JUGGLER OF DAY BLAZING IN GOLD AND QUENCHING IN PURPLE LEAPING LIKE LEOPARDS TO THE SKY THEN AT THE FEET OF THE OLD HORIZON LAYING HER SPOTTED FACE TO DIE STOOPING AS LOW AS THE OTTER'S WINDOW TOUCHING THE ROOF AND TINTING THE BARN KISSING HER BONNET TO THE MEADOW AND THE JUGGLER OF DAY IS GONE FORTY FOUR MY CRICKETARTHER IN SUMMER THAN THE BIRDS PATHETIC FROM THE GRASS A MINOR NATION CELEBRATES ITS UNOBTRUSIVE MASS NO ORDINANCE IS SEEN SO GRADUAL THE GRACE A PENSIVE CUSTOM IT BECOMES ENLARGING LONELINESS ANTIQUEST FELT AT NOON WHEN AUGUST BURNING LOW CALLS FORTH THIS SPECTRAL CENTICAL REPOSE TO TYPIFY
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