Author Emily Dickinson There is a Zone whose even YearsNo Solstice interrupt—Whose Sun constructs perpetual NoonWhose perfect Seasons wait—Whose Summer set in Summer, tillThe Centuries of JuneAnd Centuries of August ceaseAnd Consciousness—is Noon. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments