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It sifts from leaden sieves
by
Emily Dickinson


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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 flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, ?
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams 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.

This poem is in the public domain.

 

 

 

 

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Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) is considered a major American poet, though she was not accorded this honor until well after her death, when her younger sister discovered and began to share the enormous body of work that Emily left behind. A recluse who almost always wore white, Emily was born to a prominent Massachusetts family and spent the bulk of her life inside her home in Amherst. Only seven of her poems were published during her lifetime, and virtually none were published as originally written until the mid 1950s. (Emily’s odd punctuation, capitalization, and formatting did not meet with standard publishing  “approval” for earlier editions.)  There is a whimsical nature to many of her poems, although the subject of death was the most frequent recurring theme.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


New comments are closed for now.
transitions:
Simply the best.
Posted 01/10/2017 12:39 PM
Jean Colonomos:
Jean: Thanks for this beautiful poem, Jayne.
Posted 01/10/2017 09:54 AM
Michael:
Thank you Jayne, For this excellent post!
Posted 01/10/2017 08:27 AM
KevinArnold:
Describing without naming; powerful.
Posted 01/10/2017 05:46 AM
blueskies:
My life is enriched. By this dreamy poem! Thanks Emily & Jayne.
Posted 01/10/2017 05:32 AM
rhonasheridan:
Isn't she a wonderful poet -
Posted 01/10/2017 03:23 AM


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