194
On this long storm the Rainbow rose—
On this late Morn—the Sun—
The clouds—like listless Elephants—
Horizons—straggled down—
The Birds rose smiling, in their nests—
The gales—indeed—were done—
Alas, how heedless were the eyes—
On whom the summer shone!
The quiet nonchalance of death—
No Daybreak—can bestir—
The slow—Archangel's syllables
Must awaken her!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- There Is A Flower That Bees Prefer
- Unfulfilled To Observation
- To Offer Brave Assistance
- I'M The Little
- Going To Him! Happy Letter! Tell Him--