A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.
If town it have, beyond itself,
'T is that I cannot say;
I only sigh,--no vehicle
Bears me along that way.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Apparently With No Surprise
- A Happy Lip&Mdash;Breaks Sudden
- Ah, Moon—and Star!
- After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes
- A Fuzzy Fellow, Without Feet