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Will There Really Be A "Morning"?

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Will there really be a "Morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!

by Emily Dickinson

Comments (13)

Excellent poetry. Could sense the breathing soul of an old house.
I loved it too, it is a true write
I like it! The house could be a tomb. Their memories fly in the air above the soft earth that covers it. You compose quietly, transmitting your metaphors to those who will read you in the future. [ Its summits sit like sentries; ] So true... They do!
GOOD STUFF! Jack Peachum
Your poem is evocative and the language tight. I love the the line, 'A house breathes through its bones'... Rings true for me. I live in an old historic home. i've written about it, though not posted anything as of yet. The line, 'Soft earth beneath their entry, ' makes me think that the clues of the people past can be found, if we dig, but the 'shutters firmly closed...? ' Sometimes I think I can FEEL the individuals who have lived here, I can certainly sense them, when I read old blue prints, find straight edge raids in the wall, peek through layers of peeling wallpaper. This was an excellent poem! Thanks.
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