One of Emily Dickinson's more positive poems.
I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes --
each -- with a Robin's expectation --
I -- with my Redbreast --
and my Rhymes.
Late -- when I take my place in summer --
but -- I shall bring a fuller tune --
Vespers -- are sweeter than Matins -- Signore --
Morning -- only the seed of Noon.
Sometimes I am amazed at very simple events that, given what our American lifestyle is like, step outside the stereotypical patterns. Eating dinner with daughter and son-in-law last night, we talked of, and read poetry as we ate the delicious chicken pot pie. It started with "You are old, Father William," went onto a couple others from an anthology and then to "Dover Beach" and then moved on to more every day concerns. Surely this sort of thing occurred at some dinner tables last night. But how many? How few?
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