Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems

THE JUGGLER OF DAY.

Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,

Leaping like leopards to the sky,

Then at the feet of the old horizon

Laying her spotted face, to die;

Stooping as low as the otter's window,

Touching the roof and tinting the barn,

Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, --

And the juggler of day is gone!