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, "Night after night her purple traffic 

 These are the banks of the Yellow Sea; Strews the landing with opal bales; 



Where it rose, or whither it rushes, Merchantmen poise upon horizons. 



These are the western mystery! 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 "The robin is the one 



That interrupts the morn That overflows the noon 



With hurried, few, express reports With her cherubic quantity, 



When March is scarcely on. 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?' " "Tis iris, sir, and aster, 

 Some shook their heads, and others Anemone and bell, 



smiled, Batschia in the blanket red, 



And no one made reply. And chubby daffodil.' 



" 'Perhaps they did not hear,' I said; "Meanwhile at many cradles 

 'I will inquire again. Her busy foot she plied. 



Whose are the beds, the tiny beds Humming the quaintest lullaby 



So thick upon the plain?' That ever rocked a child. 



" "Tis daisy in the shortest; " 'Hush! Epigea wakens! 

 A little farther on, The crocus stirs her lids. 



Nearest the door to wake the first, Rhodora's cheek is crimson, — 



Little leontodon. 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.' " 



