Emily Dickinson — The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung

606 The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung There seemed to rise a Tune From Miniature Creatures Accompanying the Sun Far Psalteries of Summer Enamoring the Ear They never yet did satisfy Remotest—when most fair The Sun shone whole at intervals Then Half—then utter hid As if Himself were optional And had Estates of Cloud Sufficient to enfold Him Eternally from view Except it were a whim of His To let the Orchards grow A Bird sat careless on the fence One gossipped in the Lane On silver matters charmed a Snake Just winding round a Stone Bright Flowers slit a Calyx And soared upon a Stem Like Hindered Flags—Sweet hoisted With Spices—in the Hem 'Twas more—I cannot mention How mean—to those that see Vandyke's Delineation Of Nature's—Summer Day!