556
The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly—and true—
But let a Splinter swerve—
'Twere easier for You—
To put a Current back—
When Floods have slit the Hills—
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves—
And trodden out the Mills—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- I Felt My Life With Both My Hands
- If I Shouldn'T Be Alive
- How Many Times These Low Feet Staggered
- The Mystery Of Pain
- In Ebon Box, When Years Have Flown