Whose are the little beds, I asked
Which in the valleys lie?
Some shook their heads, and others smiled —
And no one made reply.
Perhaps they did not hear, I said,
I will inquire again —
Whose are the beds — the tiny beds
So thick upon the plain?
‘Tis Daisy, in the shortest —
A little further on —
Nearest the door — to wake the Ist —
Little Leontoden.
‘Tis Iris, Sir, and Aster —
Anemone, and Bell —
Bartsia, in the blanket red —
And chubby Daffodil.
Meanwhile, at many cradles
Her busy foot she plied —
Humming the quaintest lullaby
That ever rocked a child.
Hush! Epigea wakens!
The Crocus stirs her lids —
Rhodora’s cheek is crimson,
She’s dreaming of the woods!
Then turning from them reverent —
Their bedtime ’tis, she said —
The Bumble bees will wake them
When April woods are red.
(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)