POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
By what mystic mooringShe is held to-day,—This is the errand of the eyeOut upon the bay.
XXV
Belshazzar had a letter,—He never had but one;Belshazzar’s correspondentConcluded and begunIn that immortal copyThe conscience of us allCan read without its glassesOn revelation’s wall.
XXVI
THE brain within its grooveRuns evenly and true;But let a splinter swerve,’T were easier for youTo put the water backWhen floods have slit the hills,And scooped a turnpike for themselves,And blotted out the mills!
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