Emily Dickinson

(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886 / Amherst / Massachusetts)

A Solemn Thing Within The Soul - Poem by 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.


Comments about A Solemn Thing Within The Soul by Emily Dickinson

  • Rookie - 181 Points Angelina Holmes (5/5/2014 7:19:00 PM)

    Oooooh very nice poem. I like it! (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: work, sun



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003



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