A Solemn Thing Within the Soul, by Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

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.

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Emily Dickinson