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Alabaster Wool
by
Emily Dickinson
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It sifts from leaden sieves It powders all the wood It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain,— Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again It reaches to the fence It wraps it, rail by rail Till it is lost in fleeces; It flings a crystal veil On stump and stack and stem,— The summer's empty room Acres of seams where harvests were Recordless, but for them It ruffles wrists of posts As ankles of a queen,— Then stills its artisans like ghosts Denying they have been
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