POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
LX
A SHADY friend for torrid daysIs easier to findThan one of higher temperatureFor frigid hour of mind.
The vane a little to the eastScares muslin souls away;If broadcloth breasts are firmerThan those of organdy,
Who is to blame? The weaver?Ah! the bewildering thread!The tapestries of paradiseSo notelessly are made!
LXI
EACH life converges to some centreExpressed or still ;Exists in every human natureA goal,
Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,Too fairFor credibility’s temerityTo dare.
Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,To reachWere hopeless as the rainbow’s raimentTo touch,
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