The Audubon Societies 



103 



There have been poets without number gathering hidden treasure since 

 the days of these long dead singers of the East,- but I may call your attention to 

 only one at this time, Emily Dickinson, a rare New England genius, whose 

 verses convey delicately traced pictures and a subtle charm reminding one of 

 the Oriental poets. 



We may wonder if she herself felt this when she wrote 



THE SEA OF SUNSET 



'This is the land the sunset washes, 

 These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; 

 Where it rose, or whither it rushes, 

 These are the western mystery! 



"Night after night her purple traffic 

 Strews the landing with opal bales; 

 Merchantmen poise upon horizons, 

 Dip, and vanish with fairy sails." 



Find her thin volumes of poems, so overflowing with treasure, and look there 

 for 'May-flower,' 'Purple Clover,' 'Summer Shower,' 'The Snake,' 'Out of 

 the Morning,' 'Mother Nature,' 'The Grass,' 'The Oriole's Secret,' 'In the 

 Garden,' 'The Bluebird,' 'April.' All of her poems are short. Two you may 

 enjoy memorizing. 



THE ROBIN 



'The robin is the one 

 That interrupts the morn 

 With hurried, few, express reports 

 When March is scarcely on. 



"The robin is the one 

 That overflows the noon 

 With her cherubic quantity, 

 An April but begun. 



"The robin is the one 

 That speechless from her nest 

 Submits that home and certainty 

 And sanctity are best." 



THE SLEEPING FLOWERS 



'Whose are the little beds,' I asked, 

 'Which in the valleys lie?' 



Some shook their heads, and others 

 smiled, 



And no one made reply. 



'Perhaps they did not hear,' I said; 

 'I will inquire again. 



Whose are the beds, the tiny beds 



So thick upon the plain?' 



"Tis daisy in the shortest; 

 A little farther on. 

 Nearest the door to wake the first. 

 Little leontodon. 



' "Tis iris, sir, and aster, 

 Anemone and bell, 

 Batschia in the blanket red, 

 And chubby daffodil.' 



'Meanwhile at many cradles 

 Her busy foot she plied, 

 Humming the quaintest lullaby 

 That ever rocked a child. 



''Hush! Epigea wakens! 

 The crocus stirs her lids, 

 Rhodora's cheek is crimson, — ■ 

 She's dreaming of the woods.' 



"Then, turning from them, reverent, 

 'Their bed-time 'tis,' she said; 

 'The bumble-bees will wake them 

 When April woods are red.' " 



