Silent Poetry Reading

It's been one of those days, and when I was reminded of the date I thought I had not a poetical bone left in my body. But I went looking, and I found this. It's by Emily Dickinson, untitled like all of her poems.

An altered look about the hills;
A Tyrian light the village fills;
A wider sunrise in the dawn;
A deeper twilight on the lawn;
A print of a vermilion foot;
A purple finger on the slope;
A flippant fly upon the pane;
A spider at his trade again;
An added strut in chanticleer;
A flower expected everywhere;
An axe shrill singing in the woods;
Fern-odors on untravelled roads,—
All this, and more I cannot tell,
A furtive look you know as well,
And Nicodemus’ mystery
Receives its annual reply.

We're almost halfway there. I guess I'll hang in there.