She hideth Her the last —
And is the first, to rise —
Her Night doth hardly recompense
The Closing of Her eyes —
She doth Her Purple Work —
And putteth Her away
In low Apartments in the Sod –
As worthily as We.
To imitate her life
As impotent would be
As make of Our imperfect Mints,
The Julep — of the Bee —
(Emily Dickinson)
More Poetry from Emily Dickinson:
- Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Sic transit gloria mundi (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- I cannot live with You (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- The Wind begun to knead the Grass (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- One Year ago-jots what? (Emily Dickinson Poems)
- Your Riches - taugh (Emily Dickinson Poems)