large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb_25
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
Still is the bustle in the brook, Sealed are the spicy valves; Mesmeric fingers softly touch The eyes of many elves. Perhaps a squirrel may remain, My sentiments to share. Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind, Thy windy will to bear! STILL AS THE BUSTLE IN THE BROOK SEALED ARE THE SPICY VALVES MESMERIC FINGERS SOFTLY TOUCH THE EYES OF MANY ELVES PERHAPS A SQUIRREL MAY REMAIN MY SENTIMENTS TO SHARE GRANT ME O LORD A SUNNY MIND THY WINDY WILL TO BEAR
ing blossoms Obviate parade. A brief, but patient illness, An hour to prepare; And one, below this morning, Is where the angels are. It was a short procession, -- The bobolink was there, An aged bee addressed us, And then we knelt in prayer. We trust that she was willing, -- We ask that we may be. Summer, sister, seraph, Let us go with thee! In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen! XLVIII. FRINGED GENTIAN. God made a little gentian; It tried to be a rose And failed, and all the summer laughed. But just before the snows There came a purple creature That ravished all the hill; And summer hid her forehead, And mockery was still. The frosts were her condition; The Tyrian would not come Until the North evoked it. "Creator! shall I bloom?" XLIX. NOVEMBER. Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze. A few incisive mornings, A few ascetic eyes, -- Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod, And Mr. Thomson's sheaves. FRINGES THE MAPLES LOOM IS RED MY DEPARTING BLOSSOMS OBVIATE PARADE A BRIEF BUT PATIENT ILLNESS AN HOUR TO PREPARE AND ONE BELOW THIS MORNING IS WHERE THE ANGELS ARE IT WAS A SHORT PROCESSION THE BEAUBOLINCK WAS THERE AN AGED BEE ADDRESSED US AND THEN WE KNELT IN PRAYER WE TRUST THAT SHE WAS WILLING WE ASK THAT WE MAY BE SUMMER SISTER SERAPH LET US GO WITH THEE IN THE NAME OF THE BEE AND OF THE BUTTERFLY AND OF THE BREEZE AMEN FORTY EIGHT FRINGED GENTEN GOD MADE A LITTLE GENJON IT TRIED TO BE A ROSE AND FAILED AND ALL THE SUMMER LEFT BUT JUST BEFORE THE SNOWS THERE CAME A PURPLE CREATURE THAT RAVISHED ALL THE HILL AND SUMMER HID HER FOREHEAD AND MOCKERY WAS STILL THE FROSTS WERE HER CONDITION THE TYRIAN WOULD NOT COME UNTIL THE NORTH EVOKED IT CREATOR SHALL I BLOOM FORTY NINE NOVEMBER BESIDES THE AUTUMN POETS SING A FEW PROSAIC DAYS A LITTLE SIDE OF THE SNOW AND THAT SIDE OF THE HAZE A FEW INCISIVE MORNINGS A FEW ASCETIC EYES GONE MISTER BRYANT'S GOLDENROD AND MISTER THOMPSON'S SHEAVES
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