Emily Dickinson imagines flowers as little children. As dusk falls, she pictures them politely bidding the sun good night—their petals lifting one last time like pretty lips—before folding up into their nightgowns. Come dawn, they burst from a hundred buds as if from cribs, peeping out and prancing with the joy of a new morning. The comparison isn’t strained; it feels natural and full of fondness. Dickinson seems to love the flowers the way one loves a child’s innocent rituals, and the whole poem breathes with a tender, whimsical mood. Reading it, you’re invited into a world where the garden is a nursery and every blossom is a small, merry being.
As Children bid the Guest "Good Night" — Summary
As Children bid the Guest "Good Night" And then reluctant turn -- My flowers raise their pretty lips -- Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake Merry that it is Morn -- My flowers from a hundred cribs Will peep, and prance again.