Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Fringed Gentian

God made a little gentian;
It tried to be a rose
And failed, and all the summer laughed.
But just before the snows
There came a purple creature
That ravished all the hill;
And summer hid her forehead,
And mockery was still.
The frosts were her condition;
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North evoked it.
"Creator! shall I bloom?"

1. What Inn Is This
2. It Was Not Death, for I Stood up
3. A Throe upon the Features
4. Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds
5. Gone

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