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American Poems: Books: Poems by Emily Dickinson
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 Home » Books » Poems by Emily Dickinson

Poems by Emily Dickinson

  • Buy New: $18.99
  • as of 4/24/2014 08:10 EDT details
In Stock
  • Seller:Amazon.com
  • Format:Large Print
  • Language:English (Published)
  • Media:Paperback
  • Pages:166
  • Shipping Weight (lbs):1
  • Dimensions (in):10.5 x 8.3 x 0.4
  • Publication Date:April 27, 2009
  • ASIN:B002POCN4K
Shipping:Eligible for FREE Super Saver Shipping
Availability:Usually ships in 24 hours

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Editorial Reviews:
Synopsis
This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1910 edition. Excerpt: ... wind is prince of those). The orchard sparkled like a Jew,--How mighty't was, to stay A guest in this stupendous place, The parlor of the day! V. THE SUN'S WOOING. '"PHE sun just touched the morning The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring. She felt herself supremer,--A raised, ethereal thing; Henceforth for her what holiday! Meanwhile, her wheeling king Trailed slow along the orchards His haughty, spangled hems, Leaving a new necessity,--The want of diadems! The morning fluttered, staggered, Felt feebly for her crown,--Her unanointed forehead Henceforth her only one. VI. THE ROBIN. '"THE robin is the one That interrupts the morn With hurried, few, express reports When March is scarcely on. The robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, An April but begun. The robin is the one That speechless from her nest Submits that home and certainty And sanctity are best. VII. THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY. "CROM cocoon forth a butterfly As lady from her door Emerged a summer afternoon--Repairing everywhere, Without design, that I could trace, Except to stray abroad On miscellaneous enterprise The clovers understood. Her pretty parasol was seen Contracting in a field Where men made hay, then struggling hard With an opposing cloud, Where parties, phantom as herself, To Nowhere seemed to go In purposeless circumference, As 't were a tropic show. And notwithstanding bee that worked, And flower that zealous blew, This audience of idleness Disdained them, from the sky, Till sundown crept, a steady tide, And men that made the hay, And afternoon, and butterfly, Extinguished in its sea. VIII. THE BLUEBIRD. T EFORE you thought of spring, Except as a surmise, You see, God bless his suddenness, A fellow...

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