Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

High from the earth I heard a bird;
  He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
  And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
  Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
  Nature had left behind.
A joyous-going fellow
  I gathered from his talk,
Which both of benediction
  And badinage partook,
Without apparent burden,
  I learned, in leafy wood
He was the faithful father
  Of a dependent brood;
And this untoward transport
  His remedy for care, --
A contrast to our respites.
  How different we are!

1. To March
2. March
3. Dawn (Not knowing when the dawn will come)
4. A Murmur in the Trees to Note
5. Morning Is the Place for Dew

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