Emily Dickinson (1830–86).

THE DAY came slow, till five o’clock,
Then sprang before the hills
Like hindered rubies, or the light
A sudden musket spills.

The purple could not keep the east,
The sunrise shook from fold,
Like breadths of topaz, packed a night,
The lady just unrolled.

The happy winds their timbrels took;
The birds, in docile rows,
Arranged themselves around their prince
(The wind is prince of those).

The orchard sparkled like a Jew,—
How mighty ’t was, to stay
A guest in this stupendous place,
The parlor of the day!

My days seem like this sometimes, but weeks too. Usually a week is just dragging by until Wednesday, when *whoosh*. The next thing you know, it’s Sunday!