large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb_35
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
LI. THE BLUE JAY. No brigadier throughout the year So civic as the jay. A neighbor and a warrior too, With shrill felicity Pursuing winds that censure us A February day, The brother of the universe Was never blown away. FIFTY ONE THE BLUE JAY NO BRIGADIER THROUGHOUT THE YEAR SO CIVIC AS THE JAY A NEIGHBOUR AND A WARRIOR TOO WITH SHRILL FELICITY PURSUING WINDS THAT CENSURE US A FEBRUARY DAY THE BROTHER OF THE UNIVERSE WAS NEVER BLOWN AWAY
es 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. 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! L. THE SNOW. It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain, -- Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again. It reaches to the fence, It wraps it, rail by rail, Till it is lost in fleeces; It flings a crystal veil On stump and stack and stem, -- The summer's empty room, Acres of seams where harvests were, Recordless, but for them. It ruffles wrists of posts, As ankles of a queen, -- Then stills its artisans like ghosts, Denying they have been. TOR 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 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 FIFTY THE SNOW IT SIFTS FROM LEADEN SIEVES IT POWDERS ALL THE WOOD IT FILLS WITH ALABASTER WOOL THE WRINKLES OF THE ROAD IT MAKES AN EVEN FACE OF MOUNTAIN AND OF PLAIN UNBROKEN FOREHEAD FROM THE EAST UNTO THE EAST AGAIN IT REACHES TO THE FENCE IT WRAPS IT RAIL BY RAIL TILL IT IS LOST IN FLEECES IT FLINGS A CRYSTAL VEIL ON STUMP AND STACK AND STEM THE SUMMER'S EMPTY ROOM ACRES OF SEAMS WHERE HARVESTS WERE RECORDLESS BUT FOR THEM IT RUFFLES WRISTS OF POETS AS ANKLES OF A QUEEN THEN STILLS ITS ARTISANS LIKE GHOSTS DEYING THEY HAVE BEEN
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