Emily Dickinson Poems

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A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe --
And golden hang -- while farther up --
The Maker's Ladders stop --
And in the Orchard far below --
You hear a Being -- drop --

A Wonderful -- to feel the Sun
Still toiling at the Cheek
You thought was finished --
Cool of eye, and critical of Work --
He shifts the stem -- a little --
To give your Core -- a look --

But solemnest -- to know
Your chance in Harvest moves
A little nearer -- Every Sun
The Single -- to some lives.

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