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It sifts from Leaden Sieves

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Written by Emily Dickinson

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 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 --


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