Although I put away his life -
An Ornament too grand
For Forehead low as mine, to wear,
This might have been the Hand
That sowed the flower, he preferred -
Or smoothed a homely pain,
Or pushed the pebble from his path -
Or played his chosen tune -
On Lute the least - the latest -
But just his Ear could know
That whatsoe'er delighted it,
I never would let go -
The foot to bear his errand -
A little Boot I know -
Would leap abroad like Antelope -
With just the grant to do -
His weariest Commandment -
A sweeter to obey,
Than "Hide and Seek" -
Or skip to Flutes -
Or all Day, chase the Bee -
Your Servant, Sir, will weary -
The Surgeon, will not come -
The World, will have it's own - to do -
The Dust, will vex your Fame -
The Cold will force your tightest door
Some February Day,
But say my apron bring the sticks
To make your Cottage gay -
That I may take that promise
To Paradise, with me -
To teach the Angels, avarice,
You, Sir, taught first - to me.
Emily Dickinson
Musicians wrestle everywhere -
All day - among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife -
And - waking - long before the morn -
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that "New life"...
No Notice gave She, but a Change -
No Message, but a Sigh -
For Whom, the Time did not suffice
That She should specify.
She was not warm, though Summer shone
Nor scrupulous of cold
Though Rime by Rime...
Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel -
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As 'twere a travelling Mill -
He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose -
Partakes without alighting
And p...