POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.
And put it in a drawer,—
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.
CXXXIV
A MODEST lot, a fame petite,
A brief campaign of sting and sweet
Is plenty! Is enough!
A sailor’s business is the shore,
A soldier’s—balls. Who asketh more
Must seek the neighboring life!
A brief campaign of sting and sweet
Is plenty! Is enough!
A sailor’s business is the shore,
A soldier’s—balls. Who asketh more
Must seek the neighboring life!
CXXXV
IS bliss, then, such abyss
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?
I’d rather suit my foot
Than save my boot,
For yet to buy another pair
Is possible
At any fair.
Than save my boot,
For yet to buy another pair
Is possible
At any fair.
But bliss is sold just once;
The patent lost
None buy it any more.
The patent lost
None buy it any more.
[70]
