A something in a summer’s day,

As slow her flambeaux burn away,

Which solemnizes me.

  

A something in a summer’s noon,—

An azure depth, a wordless tune,      

Transcending ecstasy.

  

And still within a summer’s night

A something so transporting bright,

I clap my hands to see;

  

Then veil my too inspecting face,       

Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace

Flutter too far for me.

  

The wizard-fingers never rest,

The purple brook within the breast

Still chafes its narrow bed;       

  

Still rears the East her amber flag,

Guides still the sun along the crag

His caravan of red,

  

Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,

But never deemed the dripping prize       

Awaited their low brows;

  

Or bees, that thought the summer’s name

Some rumor of delirium

No summer could for them;

  

Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred        

By tropic hint —some travelled bird

Imported to the wood;

  

Or wind’s bright signal to the ear,

Making that homely and severe,

Contented, known, before        

  

The heaven unexpected came,

To lives that thought their worshipping

A too presumptuous psalm.

 

-  Untitled, by Emily Dickinson