Emily Dickinson

It Sifts From Leaden Sieves

311 It sifts from Leaden Sieves It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again It reaches to the Fence It wraps it Rail by Rail Till it is lost in Fleeces It deals Celestial Vail To Stump, and Stack and Stem A Summer’s empty Room Acres of Joints, where Harvests were, Recordless, but for them– It Ruffles Wrists of Posts As Ankles of a Queen Then stills its Artisans like Ghosts Denying they have been

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