How The Old Mountains Drip With Sunset
Emily Dickinson
291 How the old Mountains drip with Sunset How the Hemlocks burn— How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder By the Wizard Sun— 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 a Duchess passed— How a small Dusk crawls on the Village Till the Houses blot And the odd Flambeau, no men carry Glimmer on the Street— How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel— And where was the Wood— Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing Into Solitude— These are the Visions flitted Guido— Titian—never told— Domenichino dropped his pencil— Paralyzed, with Gold—
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