  I’ll tell you how the sun rose,— A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun, Then I said softly to myself, “That must have been the sun!” But how he set, I know not. There seemed a purple stile Which little yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while. Till when they reached the other side, A dominie in gray Put gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away. —Emily Dickinson. |
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