782
There is an arid Pleasure—
As different from Joy—
As Frost is different from Dew—
Like element—are they—
Yet one—rejoices Flowers—
And one—the Flowers abhor—
The finest Honey—curdled—
Is worthless—to the Bee—
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- The Red—blaze—is The Morning
- The Day Undressed&Mdash;Herself
- Is It Too Late To Touch You, Dear?
- The Months Have Ends—the Years—a Knot
- Over And Over, Like A Tune
