Poem 315


Emily Dickinson

He fumbles at your Soul

As players at the Keys

Before they drop full Music on--

He stuns you by degrees--

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Ethereal Blow

By fainter Hammers--further heard--

Then nearer--Then so slow

Your Breath has time to straighten--

Your Brain--to bubble Cool--


That scalps your naked Soul--

When Winds take Forests in their Paws--

The Universe--is still--


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