311 <br />It sifts from Leaden Sieves— <br />It powders all the Wood. <br />It fills with Alabaster Wool <br />The Wrinkles of the Road— <br /> <br />It makes an Even Face <br />Of Mountain, and of Plain— <br />Unbroken Forehead from the East <br />Unto the East again— <br /> <br />It reaches to the Fence— <br />It wraps it Rail by Rail <br />Till it is lost in Fleeces— <br />It deals Celestial Vail <br /> <br />To Stump, and Stack—and Stem— <br />A Summer's empty Room— <br />Acres of Joints, where Harvests were, <br />Recordless, but for them-- <br /> <br />It Ruffles Wrists of Posts <br />As Ankles of a Queen— <br />Then stills its Artisans—like Ghosts— <br />Denying they have been—<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-sifts-from-leaden-sieves/
