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It’s easy to invent a life,
God does it every day —
Creation but a gambol
Of His authority.
It’s easy to efface it,
The thrifty Deity
Could scarce afford eternity
To spontaneity.
The Perished Patterns murmur,
But His perturbless plan
Proceed — inserting here
A Sun—
There — leaving out a Man.
From The Further Poems of Emily Dickinson (Little, Brown, And Company, 1929) by Emily Dickinson. © 1929 Martha Dickinson Bianchi. This poem is in the public domain.
Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
One Sister have I in our house - And one a hedge away. There's only one recorded, But both belong to me. One came the way that I came - And wore my past year's gown - The other as a bird her nest, Builded our hearts among. She did not sing as we did - It was a different tune - Herself to her a Music As Bumble-bee of June. Today is far from Childhood - But up and down the hills I held her hand the tighter - Which shortened all the miles - And still her hum The years among, Deceives the Butterfly; Still in her Eye The Violets lie Moulder
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.