What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet— I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love Is upon the world. Yellow, yellow, yellow, It eats into the leaves, Smears with saffron The horned branches that lean Heavily Against a smooth purple sky. There is no light— Only a honey-thick stain That drips from
"The immortality of Flowers must enrich our own, and we certainly should resent a Redemption that excluded them—"
—Emily Dickinson, in a letter to Mrs. Sarah Tuckerman, 1877