large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb_61
large/7245/poems_seriestwo_la_librivox_64kb_mp3/poemsseriestwo_3_dickinson_64kb
English
7245
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. 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
flagons up, And say how many dew; Tell me how far the morning leaps, Tell me what time the weaver sleeps Who spun the breadths of blue! Write me how many notes there be In the new robin's ecstasy Among astonished boughs; How many trips the tortoise makes, How many cups the bee partakes, -- The debauchee of dews! Also, who 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!  A CUP RECKON THE MORNINGS FLAGONS UP AND SAY HOW MANY DO TELL ME HOW FAR THE MORNING LEAPPS TELL ME WHAT TIME THE WEAVER SLEEPS WHO SPUN THE BREADTHS OF BLUE WRITE ME HOW MANY NOTES THERE BE IN THE NEW ROBIN'S ECSTASY AMONG ASTONISHED BOUGHS HOW MANY TRIPS THE TORTOISE MAKES HOW MANY CUPS THE BEE PARTAKES THE DEBAUCHEE 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
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