We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practising sands.
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- Me, Change! Me, Alter!
- The Guest Is Gold And Crimson
- She's Happy, With A New Content
- Nature—sometimes Sears A Sapling
- No Crowd That Has Occurred