It Sifts From Leaden Sieves
Emily Dickinson
311 It sifts from Leaden Sieves— It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road— It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain— Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again— It reaches to the Fence— It wraps it Rail by Rail Till it is lost in Fleeces— It deals Celestial Vail To Stump, and Stack—and Stem— A Summer’s empty Room— Acres of Joints, where Harvests were, Recordless, but for them— It Ruffles Wrists of Posts As Ankles of a Queen— Then stills its Artisans—like Ghosts— Denying they have been—
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