Make me a picture of the sun—
So I can hang it in my room—
And make believe I'm getting warm
When others call it "Day"!
Draw me a Robin—on a stem—
So I am hearing him, I'll dream,
And when the Orchards stop their tune—
Put my pretense—away—
Say if it's really—warm at noon—
Whether it's Buttercups—that "skim"—
Or Butterflies—that "bloom"?
Then—skip—the frost—upon the lea—
And skip the Russet—on the tree—
Let's play those—never come!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Unit, Like Death, For Whom?
- My Portion Is Defeat—today
- My River Runs To Thee
- Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
- We Can But Follow To The Sun