A Solemn thing within the Soul
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.
Emily Dickinson
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