by Emily Dickinson
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American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
< < < My Country’s Wardrobe
My Rose > > >
My Cricket
Farther in summer than the birds,
Pathetic from the grass,
A minor nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive mass.
No ordinance is seen,
So gradual the grace,
A pensive custom it becomes,
Enlarging loneliness.
Antiquest felt at noon
When August, burning low,
Calls forth this spectral canticle,
Repose to typify.
Remit as yet no grace,
No furrow on the glow,
Yet a druidic difference
Enhances nature now.
< < < My Country’s Wardrobe
My Rose > > >
American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
Copyright holders – Public Domain
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