The brain within its groove
Runs evenly and true;
But let a splinter swerve,
'T were easier for you
To put the water back
When floods have slit the hills,
And scooped a turnpike for themselves,
And blotted out the mills!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Each Second Is The Last
- The Bustle In A House
- Did You Ever Stand In A Cavern's Mouth
- As Children Bid The Guest "Good Night"
- Fame Of Myself, To Justify