Incarceration-Home

  So I decided it is Emily Dickinson Day! I really like her poetry, even if alot of it is morbid. I have a riddle for you all, written by ED herself:

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 deals Celestial Vail

To Stump, and Stack- and Stem-

A Summer's empty room-

Acres of Joints, 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-

Can anyone tell me the answer to the riddle? I figured it out within about thirty seconds after I read it. If anyone figures it out leave a comment with the answer.

Here is another favorite ED poem of mine:

How soft this Prison is

How sweet these sullen bars

No Despot but the King of Down

Invented this repose

Of Fate if this is All

Has he no added Realm

A Dungeon but a Kinsman is

Incarceration- Home.

I like that one. And I just thought up this one after reading about an interesting conversation between a couple talking about the girl's past mistakes, and her fear about the conversation,

I feel the fear creeping over me,

Smothering my sobbing breaths,

Fear and guilt, entwined,

Icy fingers clutching at my throat,

My stomach.

Guilt for what I have done,

Knowing I must pay,

Fear for the Love I might lose,

Fear I'll lose,

Lose the most precious to me- you.

I most heartily repent,

And wish it was never done,

Please say You will still Love me,

Don't turn away from me,

See-- my hand out-stretched-- take it,  please.

So yeah, that's it.