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About this Poem 

This poem is in the public domain.

I like to see it lap the Miles (43)

I like to see it lap the Miles,  
And lick the valleys up,  
And stop to feed itself at tanks;  
And then, prodigious, step  
   
Around a pile of mountains, 
And, supercilious, peer  
In shanties by the sides of roads;  
And then a quarry pare  
   
To fit its sides, and crawl between,  
Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza;  
Then chase itself down hill  
   
And neigh like Boanerges;  
Then, punctual as a star,  
Stop—docile and omnipotent—
At its own stable door. 
Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

Born in 1830 in Massachusetts, Emily Dickinson is now considered, along with Walt Whitman, the founder of a uniquely American poetic voice.

by this poet

poem
Winter is good - his Hoar Delights
Italic flavor yield -
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World - 

Generic as a Quarry
And hearty - as a Rose - 
Invited with asperity
But welcome when he goes.
poem
Besides the Autumn poets sing,	
A few prosaic days	
A little this side of the snow	
And that side of the Haze -	
  
A few incisive mornings -	        
A few Ascetic eves -	
Gone - Mr Bryant's "Golden Rod" -	
And Mr Thomson's "sheaves."	
  
Still, is the bustle in the brook -	
Sealed are the spicy valves
poem
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –  

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –  
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My Mind was going numb –  

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my