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It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
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.
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
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.
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.
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
Rebekah
p.s. emily dickinson is just as cool as robert frost.
p.s. emily dickinson is just as cool as robert frost.
What a beautiful poem! ♥
ReplyDeleteAmy xx
Perfect Imperfections
Isn't it, though? :)
DeleteAdding Emily Dickinson to my list of poets to read from. She describes things so uniquely.
ReplyDeleteYes, yes she does. :)
Delete