Oh, oh, oh you guyyys. Last night I was flicking through some Emily Dickinson poetry - she’s my absolute favourite by the way, she’s one hardcore chica - and I found this one poem that just hit me like a ton of bricks. I stayed up ‘til 2am committing it to memory. You should be jealous because I now have a sunset on my tongue. At least, that’s how it feels. That’s eight poems I have in my head now. And you just know they’re eight of the best. I had to geek out and share it before I go to Borders for a large mocha and the complete set of Dickinson.
How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn—
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun—
How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full—
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?
Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows—
Touching all the Grass
With a departing—Sapphire—feature—
As a Duchess passed—
How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street—
How it is Night—in Nest and Kennel—
And where was the Wood—
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
These are the Visions flitted Guido—
Domenichino dropped his pencil—
Paralyzed, with Gold—
Have a beautiful day, :).