Emily Dickinson — A solemn thing—it was—I said 483

A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe— And golden hang—while farther up— The Maker's Ladders stop— And in the Orchard far below— You hear a Being—drop— A Wonderful—to feel the Sun Still toiling at the Cheek You thought was finished— Cool of eye, and critical of Work— He shifts the stem—a little— To give your Core—a look— But solemnest—to know Your chance in Harvest moves A little nearer—Every Sun The Single—to some lives.