Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Waking Year

 A lady red upon the hill   Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field   In placid lily sleeps! 
 The tidy breezes with their brooms   Sweep vale, and hill, and tree! Prithee, my pretty housewives!   Who may expected be? 
 The neighbors do not yet suspect!   The woods exchange a smile - Orchard, and buttercup, and bird -   In such a little while! 
 And yet how still the landscape stands,   How nonchalant the wood, As if the resurrection   Were nothing very odd!