I’ll tell you how the sun rose,–
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then said I softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”
But how he set I know not;
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while.
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.
Emily Dickinson.
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