POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
’T is an instant’s play,’T is a fond ambush,Just to make blissEarn her own surprise!
But should the playProve piercing earnest,Should the glee glazeIn death’s stiff stare,
Would not the funLook too expensive?Would not the jestHave crawled too far?
LXXXII
MUSICIANS wrestle everywhere:All day, among the crowded air, I hear the silver strife;And—waking long before the dawn—Such transport breaks upon the town I think it that “new life!”
It is not bird, it has no nest;Nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed, Nor tambourine, nor man;It is not hymn from pulpit read,—The morning stars the treble led On time’s first afternoon!
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