By Deb A.
Fathers in North America are spending the day opening up handmade cards, yoga mats are being rolled out with a collective thwap all around the world in the name of a new era of peace, and revellers are awaiting sunset on Stonehenge. It is a busy day. And a long one, at least in the northern hemisphere. Today we'll leave you to ruminate on love, courtesy of Emily Dickinson.
There Came A Day At Summer's Full
There came a Day at Summer's full,
Entirely for me--
I thought that such were for the Saints,
The Sun, as common, went abroad,
The flowers, accustomed, blew,
As if no soul the solstice passed
That maketh all things new--
The time was scarce profaned, by speech--
The symbol of a word
Was needless, as at Sacrament,
The Wardrobe--of our Lord--
Each was to each The Sealed Church,
Permitted to commune this--time--
Lest we too awkward show
At Supper of the Lamb.
The Hours slid fast--as Hours will,
Clutched tight, by greedy hands--
So faces on two Decks, look back,
Bound to opposing lands--
And so when all the time had leaked,
Without external sound
Each bound the Other's Crucifix--
We gave no other bond
Sufficient troth, that we shall rise--
Deposed--at length, the Grave--
To that new Marriage,
Justified--through Calvaries of Love--
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