POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer,—Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor.
CXXXIV
A MODEST lot, a fame petite,A brief campaign of sting and sweetIs plenty! Is enough!A sailor’s business is the shore, A soldier’s—balls. Who asketh moreMust seek the neighboring life!
CXXXV
IS bliss, then, such abyssI must not put my foot amissFor fear I spoil my shoe?
I’d rather suit my footThan save my boot,For yet to buy another pairIs possibleAt any fair.
But bliss is sold just once;The patent lostNone buy it any more.
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