On my volcano grows the Grass
A meditative spot -
An acre for a Bird to choose
Would be the General thought -
How red the Fire rocks below -
How insecure the sod
Did I disclose
Would populate with awe my solitude.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Devil - had he fidelity
- Not Sickness stains the Brave,
- I thought the Train would never come
- A Spider sewed at Night
- Tell as a Marksman - were forgotten