The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung Emily Dickinson
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The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung
There seemed to rise a Tune
From Miniature Creatures
Accompanying the Sun
Far Psalteries of Summer
Enamoring the Ear
They never yet did satisfy
Remotest—when most fair
The Sun shone whole at intervals
Then Half—then utter hid
As if Himself were optional
And had Estates of Cloud
Sufficient to enfold Him
Eternally from view
Except it were a whim of His
To let the Orchards grow
A Bird sat careless on the fence
One gossipped in the Lane
On silver matters charmed a Snake
Just winding round a Stone
The Trees like Tassels—hit—and swung
There seemed to rise a Tune
From Miniature Creatures
Accompanying the Sun
Far Psalteries of Summer
Enamoring the Ear
They never yet did satisfy
Remotest—when most fair
The Sun shone whole at intervals
Then Half—then utter hid
As if Himself were optional
And had Estates of Cloud
Sufficient to enfold Him
Eternally from view
Except it were a whim of His
To let the Orchards grow
A Bird sat careless on the fence
One gossipped in the Lane
On silver matters charmed a Snake
Just winding round a Stone
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