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944 I learned—at least—what Home could be— How ignorant I had been Of pretty ways of Covenant— How awkward at the Hymn Round our new Fireside—but for this— This pattern—of the Way— Whose Memory drowns me, like the Dip Of a Celestial Sea— What Mornings in our Garden—guessed— What Bees—for us—to hum— With only Birds to interrupt The Ripple of our Theme— And Task for Both— When Play be done— Your Problem—of the Brain— And mine—some foolisher effect— A Ruffle—or a Tune— The Afternoons—Together spent— And Twilight—in the Lanes— Some ministry to poorer lives— Seen poorest—thro' our gains— And then Return—and Night—and Home— And then away to You to pass— A new—diviner—care— Till Sunrise take us back to Scene— Transmuted—Vivider— This seems a Home— And Home is not— But what that Place could be— Afflicts me—as a Setting Sun— Where Dawn—knows how to be—
Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:21 PM | Viewed: 7662 times
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Emily Dickinson
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