375
The Angle of a Landscape-
That every time I wake-
Between my Curtain and the Wall
Upon an ample Crack-
Like a Venetian-waiting-
Accosts my open eye-
Is just a Bough of Apples-
Held slanting, in the Sky-
The Pattern of a Chimney-
The Forehead of a Hill-
Sometimes-a Vane’s Forefinger-
But that’s-Occasional-
The Seasons-shift-my Picture-
Upon my Emerald Bough,
I wake-to find no-Emeralds-
Then-Diamonds-which the Snow
From Polar Caskets-fetched me-
The Chimney-and the Hill-
And just the Steeple’s finger-
These-never stir at all-
