Delight becomes pictorial
When viewed through pain,--
More fair, because impossible
That any gain.
The mountaln at a given distance
In amber lies;
Approached, the amber flits a little,--
And that's the skies!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Four Trees—upon A Solitary Acre
- I Started Early - Took My Dog
- It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up,
- Doubt Me! My Dim Companion!
- It Sifts From Leaden Sieves