POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
CXXVIII
THE past is such a curious creature, To look her in the faceA transport may reward us, Or a disgrace.
Unarmed if any meet her, I charge him, fly!Her rusty ammunition Might yet reply!
CXXIX
TO help our bleaker parts Salubrious hours are given,Which if they do not fit for earth Drill silently for heaven.
CXXX
WHAT soft, cherubic creatures These gentlewomen are!One would as soon assault a plush Or violate a star.
Such dimity convictions, A horror so refinedOf freckled human nature, Of Deity ashamed,—
[68]
