THE LOST JEWEL - I held a jewel in my fingers
I held a jewel in my fingers / And went to sleep.
ON my volcano grows the grass
❦
ON my volcano grows the grass,–
A meditative spot,
An area for a bird to choose
Would be the general thought.
How red the fire reeks below,
How insecure the sod–
Did I disclose, would populate
With awe my solitude.
More poems by Emily Dickinson
AT LENGTH
Her final summer was it, / And yet we guessed it not;
A poor torn heart, a tattered heart
A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, / That sat it down to rest,
If you were coming in the fall
If you were coming in the fall, / I'd brush the summer by