I breathed enough to learn the trick,
And now, removed from air,
I simulate the breath so well,
That one, to be quite sure
The lungs are stirless, must descend
Among the cunning cells,
And touch the pantomime himself.
How cool the bellows feels!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Noon—is The Hinge Of Day
- 'Tis One By One — The Father Counts
- I Was The Slightest In The House
- Portraits Are To Daily Faces
- If He Dissolve—then—there Is Nothing