Emily Dickinson

A Solemn Thing Within The Soul

poem 483

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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