Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

New feet within my garden go,
New fingers stir the sod;
A troubadour upon the elm
Betrays the solitude.

New children play upon the green,
New weary sleep below;
And still the pensive spring returns,
And still the punctual snow!

1. Philosophy
2. This Merit Hath the Worst
3. Contrast
4. Ventures
5. Disenchantment

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