82
Whose cheek is this?
What rosy face
Has lost a blush today?
I found her—"pleiad"—in the woods
And bore her safe away.
Robins, in the tradition
Did cover such with leaves,
But which the cheek—
And which the pall
My scrutiny deceives.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Our Little Kinsmen—after Rain
- Of All The Souls That Stand Create
- What I See Not, I Better See
- The Bird Must Sing To Earn The Crumb
- Heavenly Father
