This—is the land—the Sunset washes—
These—are the Banks of the Yellow Sea—
Where it rose—or whither it rushes—
These—are the Western Mystery!
Night after Night
Her purple traffic
Strews the landing with Opal Bales—
Merchantmen—poise upon Horizons—
Dip—and vanish like Orioles!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Some Such Butterfly Be Seen
- I Showed Her Heights She Never Saw
- Not Probable—the Barest Chance
- A Sloop of Amber slips away
- I Saw The Wind Within Her