Love the life you live, live the the life you love

Nature, the gentlest mother
Emily Dickinson Poems of Nature

Will there really be a morning?
At half-past three a single bird
The day came slow, till five o’clock
The sun just touched the morning
The robin is the one
From cocoon forth a butterfly
Before you thought of spring
An altered look about the hills
‘Whose are the little beds,’ I asked
Pigmy seraphs gone astray
To hear an oriole sing
One of the ones that Midas touched
I dreaded that first robin so
A route of evanescence
The skies can’t keep their secret!
Who robbed the woods
Two butterflies went out at noon
I started early, took my dog
Arcturus is his other name
An awful tempest mashed the air
An everywhere of silver
A bird came down the walk:
A narrow fellow in the grass
The mushroom is the elf of plants
There came a wind like a bugle
A spider sewed at night
I know a place where summer strives
The one that could repeat the summer day
The wind tapped like a tired man
Nature rarer uses yellow
The leaves, like women, interchange
How happy is the little stone
It sounded as if the streets were running
The rat is the concisest tenant
Frequently the woods are pink
The wind begun to rock the grass
South winds jostle them
Bring me the sunset in a cup
She sweeps with many-colored brooms
Like mighty footlights burned the red
Where ships of purple gently toss
Blazing in gold and quenching in purple
Farther in summer than the birds
As imperceptibly as grief
It can’t be summer,—that got through
The gentian weaves her fringes
God made a little gentian
Besides the autumn poets sing
It sifts from leaden sieves
No brigadier throughout the year
New feet within my garden go
Pink, small, and punctual
The murmur of a bee
Perhaps you’d like to buy a flower?
The pedigree of honey
Some keep the Sabbath going to church
The bee is not afraid of me
Some rainbow coming from the fair!
The grass so little has to do
A little road not made of man
A drop fell on the apple tree
A something in a summer’s day
This is the land the sunset washes
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
There is a flower that bees prefer
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
As children bid the guest good-night
Angels in the early morning
So bashful when I spied her
It makes no difference abroad
The mountain sat upon the plain
I ’ll tell you how the sun rose
The butterfly’s assumption-gown
Of all the sounds despatched abroad
Apparently with no surprise
’T was later when the summer went
These are the days when birds come back
The morns are meeker than they were
The sky is low, the clouds are mean
I think the hemlock likes to stand
There’s a certain slant of light
The springtime’s pallid landscape
She slept beneath a tree
A light exists in spring
A lady red upon the hill
Dear March, come in!
We like March, his shoes are purple
Not knowing when the dawn will come
A murmur in the trees to note
Morning is the place for dew
To my quick ear the leaves conferred
A sepal, petal, and a thorn
High from the earth I heard a bird
The spider as an artist
What mystery pervades a well!
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee
It ’s like the light
A dew sufficed itself
His bill an auger is
Sweet is the swamp with its secrets
Could I but ride indefinite
The moon was but a chin of gold
The bat is dun with wrinkled wings
You ’ve seen balloons set, haven’t you?
The cricket sang
Drab habitation of whom?
A sloop of amber slips away
Of bronze and blaze
How the old mountains drip with sunset
The murmuring of bees has ceased