496
As far from pity, as complaint—
As cool to speech—as stone—
As numb to Revelation
As if my Trade were Bone—
As far from time—as History—
As near yourself—Today—
As Children, to the Rainbow's scarf—
Or Sunset's Yellow play
To eyelids in the Sepulchre—
How dumb the Dancer lies—
While Color's Revelations break—
And blaze—the Butterflies!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- A Transport One Cannot Contain
- Despair's Advantage Is Achieved
- How Happy I Was If I Could Forget
- Do People Moulder Equally
- As If I Asked A Common Alms