375 <br /> <br />The Angle of a Landscape— <br />That every time I wake— <br />Between my Curtain and the Wall <br />Upon an ample Crack— <br /> <br />Like a Venetian—waiting— <br />Accosts my open eye— <br />Is just a Bough of Apples— <br />Held slanting, in the Sky— <br /> <br />The Pattern of a Chimney— <br />The Forehead of a Hill— <br />Sometimes—a Vane's Forefinger— <br />But that's—Occasional— <br /> <br />The Seasons—shift—my Picture— <br />Upon my Emerald Bough, <br />I wake—to find no—Emeralds— <br />Then—Diamonds—which the Snow <br /> <br />From Polar Caskets—fetched me— <br />The Chimney—and the Hill— <br />And just the Steeple's finger— <br />These—never stir at all—<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-angle-of-a-landscape/
