Emily Dickinson

The Angle Of A Landscape

poem 375

The Angle of a Landscape That every time I wake Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack Like a Venetian waiting Accosts my open eye Is just a Bough of Apples Held slanting, in the Sky The Pattern of a Chimney The Forehead of a Hill Sometimes a Vane’s Forefinger But that’s Occasional The Seasons shift my Picture Upon my Emerald Bough, I wake to find no Emeralds Then Diamonds&m dash;which the Snow From Polar Caskets fetched me The Chimney and the Hill And just the Steeple’s finger These never stir at all

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