POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
And so, upon this wise I prayed,—Great Spirit, give to meA heaven not so large as yours,But large enough for me.
A smile suffused Jehovah’s face;The cherubim withdrew;Grave saints stole out to look at me,And showed their dimples, too.
I left the place with all my might,—My prayer away I threw;The quiet ages picked it up,And Judgment twinkled, too,
That one so honest be extantAs take the tale for trueThat “Whatsoever you shall ask,Itself be given you.”
But I, grown shrewder, scan the skiesWith a suspicious air,—As children, swindled for the first,All swindlers be, infer.
XL
THE thought beneath so slight a filmIs more distinctly seen,—As laces just reveal the surge,Or mists the Apennine.
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