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A Solemn thing within the Soul

Emily Dickinson

483

A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe—
And golden hang—while farther up—
The Maker's Ladders stop—
And in the Orchard far below—
You hear a Being—drop—

A Wonderful—to feel the Sun
Still toiling at the Cheek
You thought was finished—
Cool of eye, and critical of Work—
He shifts the stem—a little—
To give your Core—a look—

But solemnest—to know
Your chance in Harvest moves
A little nearer—Every Sun
The Single—to some lives.

Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 14 Dec 2018 5:55 AM | Viewed: 7526 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/6204/ | Viewed on 14 December 2018.
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