Poem 338

by

Emily Dickinson


I know that He exists.

Somewhere--in Silence--

He has hid his rare life

From our gross eyes.


'Tis an instant's play.

'Tis a fond Ambush--

Just to make Bliss

Earn her own surprise!


But--should the play

Prove piercing earnest--

Should the glee--glaze--

In Death's--stiff--stare--


Would not the fun

Look too expensive!

Would not the jest--

Have crawled too far!


(1862)



Go Back