Read the poem: “The Walking Year”

by Emily Dickinson

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A lady red upon the hill

Her annual secret keeps;

A lady white within the field

In placid lily sleeps!

The tidy breezes with their brooms

Sweep vale, and hill, and tree!

Prithee, my pretty housewives!

Who may expected be?

The neighbors do not yet suspect!

The woods exchange a smile —

Orchard, and buttercup, and bird —

In such a little while!

And yet how still the landscape stands,

How nonchalant the wood,

As if the resurrection

Were nothing very odd!

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