I'll tell you how the Sun rose— A Ribbon at a time. The Steeples swam in Amethyst, The news, like Squirrels ran— The Hills untied their Bonnets— The Bobolinks—begun— Then I said softly to myself— "That must have been the Sun!" But how he set—I know not— There seemed a purple stile That little Yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while— Till when they reached the other side, A Dominie in Gray— Put gently up the evening Bars— And led the flock away—
I’m entranced by Emily Dickinson. I read a poem by her, I read it fast, and have no idea what it means. I get a flash impression—ribbon, steeples, news, squirrels, bonnets, and bobolinks oh my. It’s what I feel at Llano Seco as the sun rises, cranes emerge from the mist, ducks murmur.
And then the purple style, the gray preacher, the evening bars, the children led away and this is me facing my final years to be led . . . where.
I read it again and again, and the images flutter around me. The Yellow boys and girls climbing, led away by the gray man.
I read it again. Brave exclamation. I’ll tell you how the Sun rose, “that must have been the sun” then not so sure "But how he set---I know not”
I read it yet again and shudder.
The tears spring to my eyes as I think of Emily Dickinson’s own definition of poetry.
"If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire ever can warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry."
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