A Solemn thing within the Soul
To feel itself get ripe
And golden hang — while farther up
The Maker's Ladders stop
And in the Orchard far below
You hear a Being — drop
A Wonderful — to feel the Sun
Still toiling at the Cheek
You thought was finished
Cool of eye, and critical of Work
He shifts the stem — a little
To give your Core — a look
But solemnest — to know
Your chance in Harvest moves
A little nearer — Every Sun
The Single — to some lives