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You're built to win it. Welcome to snoozecast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep.

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This episode is dedicated to our dear listener, Kim, who gave us lots of ideas. And by Dreamy Butterflies. Tonight, we'll read selected poems from Emily Dickinson, starting with a collection about nature. Little known during her life, Dickinson has since been regarded as one of the most important figures in American poetry. Evidence suggests that Dickinson lived much of her life in isolation. Considered an eccentric by locals, she developed a penchant for white clothing and was known for her reluctance to even leave her bedroom. Dickinson never married and most friendships between her and others depended entirely upon correspondence. Her poems were unique for her era. They contained short lines, typically lack titles, and often used slant rhyme, as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation. In early editions, including this one, Emily Dickinson's poems were edited by her friends better to fit the conventions of the times. Thus some of the uniqueness is best understood by viewing her direct handwriting on the page or by reading more recent editions.

Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. Nature, one, New feet within my garden go. New fingers stir the sod. A troubadour upon the Elm betrays the solitude. New children play upon the green. New weary sleep blow. And still the pencif spring returns. And still the punctual snow. Two, Mayflower, Pink, Small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, covert in April, candid in May. Dear to the moss, known by the nul, next to the robin, in every human soul. Bold little beauty, bedecked with thee, nature for swears and tickity. Why? The murmur of a bee, a witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why, it was easier to die than tell. The red upon the hill, takeeth away my will. If anybody sneer, take care, for God is here, that's all. The breaking of the day, addeth to my degree, if any ask me how, artist, who drew me so, must tell. For. Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower, but I could never sell. If you would like to borrow until the daffodil, unties her yellow bonnet beneath the village door until the bees from Clover rose their hawk and cherry draw. Why, I will lend until just then but not an hour more. 5. The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee. A clover any time to him is aristocracy.

6. A Service of Song

Some keep the Sabbath going to church.

I keep it staying at home with a bobbleink for a chorister and an orchard for a dome. Some keep the Sabbath in surplus. I just wear my wings, and instead of tolling the bell for church, our little sexton sings. God preaches, a noted clergyman, and the sermon is never long. So instead of getting to heaven at last, I'm going all along. 7. The bee is not afraid of me. I know the butterfly. the pretty people in the woods receive me cordially. The brooks laugh louder when I come. The breezes matter play. Wherefore, my eyes, thy silver mists, Wherefore, who summers day? 8. Summers, armies. Some rainbow coming from the fair, some vision of the world, Kashmir I confidently see. Or else a peacock's purple train, feather by feather on the plane, Fritters itself away. The dreamy butterflies bister, Lethargic pools resume their war Of last year's sundered tune. From some old fortress on the sun, Boronial Bees March, one by one, in murmuring platoon. The robins stand as thick today as flakes of snow stood yesterday on fence and roof and twig. The orchid binds her feather on, for her old lover dawned the sun, revisiting the the bog. Without commander, countless still, the regiment of wood and hill in bright detachment stand. Behold, whose multitudes are these?

The children of whose turban seas, or what circasian land? 9. The grass. The grass so little has to do. A sphere of simple green with only butterflies to brood and bees to entertain. Stir all day to pretty tunes the breezes fetch along and hold the sunshine in its lap and bow to everything and thread the do's all night like pearls, and make itself so fine. A duchess were too common for such unnoticing, And even when it dies to pass in odors so divine, as lowly The bite says gone to sleep or amulets of pine. And then to dwell in sovereign barns and dream the days away. The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay. Ten. A little road not made of man, enabled of the eye,ible to fill of be. Or cart of butterfly. If town it have beyond itself, is that I cannot say? I only sigh, no vehicle bears me along that way. 11. Summer shower. A drop fell on the apple tree, another on the roof. A half a dozen kissed the eaves and made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the brook that went to help the sea. My self-conjectured were they pearls, what necklaces could be. The dust replaced in hoisted roads. The birds, they sung. The sun shined through his hat away. The orchards, spangles hung.

The breezes brought, dejected lutes, and bathed them in the glee. The east put out a single flag and signed the fat away.

12. of the day. A something in a summer's day, As slow her flambo burn away, which solemnizes me. A something in a summer's noon. And as your depth, a worthless tune, transcending ecstasy, still within a summer's night.

A something so transporting bright, I clap my hands to see. unveil my two inspecting face. Lest such a subtle shimmering grace flutter too far from me. The wizard fingers never rust, the purple brook within the breast still chafes its narrow bad. Still rears the east her amber flag. Guide still the sun along the crag, his caravan of red. flowers that heard the tale of do's, but never deemed the dripping prize, awaited their low-brows, or bees that thought the summer's name, some rumor of delirium, no summer could for them. For Arctic creature dimly stirred by tropic hint, some traveled bird imported to the wood, or winds bright signal to the ear, making that homely and severe contented known before. The heaven unexpected came to lives that thought they're worshipping a two presumptuous song.

13.

The Sea of Sunset This is the land the sunset washes. These are the banks of the yellow sea, where it rose, or wither it rushes. These are the western mystery. After night, her purple traffic

Struse the landing with opal bales Merchantmen Poise upon horizons Dip and vanish with fairy sails 14

Purple clover

There is a flower that bees prefer and butterflies desire

to gain the purple Democrat, the hummingbirds aspire, and whatsoever insect pass a honey Any bears away, proportioned to his several dearth and her capacity. Her face is rounder than the moon and rudder than the gown of orchids in the pasture or rotted dendren worn. She doth not wait for June, before the world is green. Her sturdy little countenance against the wind is seen. Contending with the grass near Kinsman to herself, for privilege of sod and sun, Sweet lit against for life.

And when the hills are full and newer fashions blow, Doth not retract a single spice for paying of jealousy. Her public is the noon. her providence, the sun, her progress by the bee proclaimed in sovereign, swerveless tune. the bravest of the host surrendering the last, nor even of the defeat aware when canceled by the frost, 15, the bee like trains of 15. The Bee

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