POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
To fit its sides, and crawl between,Complaining all the whileIn horrid, hooting stanza;Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges;Then, punctual as a star,Stop—docile and omnipotent—At its own stable door.
XLIV
THE show is not the show,But they that go.Menagerie to meMy neighbor be.Fair play—Both went to see.
XLV
DELIGHT becomes pictorialWhen viewed through pain,—More fair, because impossibleThat any gain.
The mountain at a given distanceIn amber lies;Approached, the amber flits a little,—And that’s the skies!
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