I like to see it lap the miles,
And lick the valleys up,
And stop to feed itself at tanks;
And then, prodigious, step
Around a pile of mountains,
And, supercilious, peer
In shanties by the sides of roads;
And then a quarry pare
To fit its sides, and crawl between,
Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza;
Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges;
Then, punctual as a star,
Stop--docile and omnipotent--
At its own stable door.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- It Don'T Sound So Terrible—quite—as It Did
- Before He Comes We Weigh The Time!
- Bereaved Of All, I Went Abroad
- Exultation Is The Going
- Empty My Heart, Of Thee