A lane of Yellow led the eye
Unto a Purple Wood
Whose soft inhabitants to be
Surpasses solitude
If Bird the silence contradict
Or flower presume to show
In that low summer of the West
Impossible to know -
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Words The Happy Say
- Just As He Spoke It From His Hands
- The Butterfly In Honored Dust
- These—saw Visions
- Like Flowers, That Heard The News Of Dews