Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/148

 1 34 POEMS.

��XXVIII. THE COMING OF NIGHT.

T T OW the old mountains drip with sunset, How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel By the wizard sun !
 * * And the brake of dun !

How the old steeples hand the scarlet,

Till the ball is full, Have I the lip of the flamingo

That I dare to tell ?

Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,

Touching all the grass With a departing, sapphire feature,

As if a duchess pass !

How a small dusk crawls on the village

Till the houses blot ; And the odd flambeaux no men carry

Glimmer on the spot !

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