![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZkTSu1rA5igYA5o9uAYWVKxB6Rjx0bsCO6hiOnTe4QeNAt4ucI_nPBKkoPLoUHQ8s-9jhBokmrlYcwAYOaB00odii6IY9mT4knTzCxVfH7tnGSH8vSrxpv4zU-U7B_vMjFFifzm_4GKH/s400/tower-d.jpg)
Yannis Stavrou, Thessaloniki in Colors, oil on canvas
(detail)
Emily Dickinson
"Nature" is what we see
"Nature" is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.
"Heaven" has different Signs—to me—
"Heaven" has different Signs—to me—
Sometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place—
And when again, at Dawn,
A mighty look runs round the World
And settles in the Hills—
An Awe if it should be like that
Upon the Ignorance steals—
The Orchard, when the Sun is on—
The Triumph of the Birds
When they together Victory make—
Some Carnivals of Clouds—
The Rapture of a finished Day—
Returning to the West—
All these—remind us of the place
That Men call "paradise"—
Itself be fairer—we suppose—
But how Ourself, shall be
Adorned, for a Superior Grace—
Not yet, our eyes can see—
"Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!
"Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree—
Provided it do hopeless—hang—
That—"Heaven" is—to Me!
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud—
The interdicted Land—
Behind the Hill—the House behind—
There—Paradise—is found!
Her teasing Purples—Afternoons—
The credulous—decoy—
Enamored—of the Conjuror—
That spurned us—Yesterday!
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