The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
“Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?”
“Because, sir, love is sweet!”
We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee,—
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
I suspect it’s not entirely fashionable these days to appreciate Emily Dickinson, but I do anyway. I think something of her pure New England weirdness is in my soul. I love how this poem manages to be sexy and morbid at the same time. It also makes me think of the Summer Solstice – the bright heat of the sun, the warmth, the beauty, and yet within it all the seed of decline.