POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausingAt her low gate;Unmoved, an emperor is kneelingUpon her mat.
I’ve known her from an ample nationChoose one;Then close the valves of her attentionLike stone.
XIV
SOME things that fly there be,—Birds, hours, the bumble–bee:Of these no elegy.
Some things that stay there be,—Grief, hills, eternity:Nor this behooveth me.
There are, that resting, rise.Can I expound the skies?How still the riddle lies!
XV
I KNOW some lonely houses off the roadA robber’d like the look of,—Wooden barred,And windows hanging low,Inviting toA portico,
[10]
