Emily Dickinson





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.