POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Some other thirsty there may beTo whom this would have pointed meHad it remained to speak.
And so I always bear the cupIf, haply, mine may be the dropSome pilgrim thirst to slake,—
If, haply, any say to me,“Unto the little, unto me,”When I at last awake.
XXIX
THE nearest dream recedes, unrealized.The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover—Dips—evades—teases—deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boyStaring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies notThat brews that rare variety.
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