Poem: “The Waking Year” By Emily Dickenson

A lady red upon the hill
Her annual secret keeps;
A lady white within the field
In placid lily sleeps!

The tidy breezes with their brooms
Sweep vale, and hill, and tree;
Prithee, my pretty housewives,
Who may expected be?

The neighbors do not yet suspect,
The woods exchange a smile –
Orchard and buttercup and bird –
In such a little while!

And yet how still the landscape stands,
How nonchalant the wood,
As if the resurrection
Were nothing very odd!