The Angle Of A Landscape
Emily Dickinson
375 The Angle of a Landscape— That every time I wake— Between my Curtain and the Wall Upon an ample Crack— Like a Venetian—waiting— Accosts my open eye— Is just a Bough of Apples— Held slanting, in the Sky— The Pattern of a Chimney— The Forehead of a Hill— Sometimes—a Vane’s Forefinger— But that’s—Occasional— The Seasons—shift—my Picture— Upon my Emerald Bough, I wake—to find no—Emeralds— Then—Diamonds—which the Snow From Polar Caskets—fetched me— The Chimney—and the Hill— And just the Steeple’s finger— These—never stir at all—
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