A Solemn Thing Within the Soul By Emily Dickinson

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.

See also  Psalm 115:1 First Metre [Not To Ourselves, Who Are But Dust] by Isaac Watts
Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *