The Day Came Slow, Till Five O' Clock
By Emily Dickinson
The day came slow, till five o'clock
Then sprang before the hills
Like hindered rubies, or the light
A sudden musket spills
The purple could not keep the east,
The sunrise shook from fold,
Like breadths of topaz, packed a night,
The lady just unrolled.
The happy winds their timbrels took;
The birds, in docile rows,
Arranged themselves around their prince
(The wind is prince of those).
The orchard sparkled like a Jew, --
How mighty 't was, to stay
A guest in this stupendous place,
The parlor of the day!
The Orchard
I don't understand Emily Dickinson why,
I don't understand
I don't understand why the orchard should
"sparkle like a Jew"
I can understand how the sunrise might
in synaesthesia, sound and look like a musket
report across the skies, how the colours
amassed in the morning slowly in palette
become the glitter of jewels,
but I don't understand why the orchard should
"sparkle like a Jew"
I can understand why the birds benumbed by sleep
might as you say Emily be arrayed in a docile row,
how wind may take on regal airs, to pun,
how the morning could be like a woman at a dressing
table, putting on her finery,
but my dear Emily, I don't understand why
the orchard should "sparkle like a Jew"
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