POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak.
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak.
And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake,—
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake,—
If, haply, any say to me,
“Unto the little, unto me,”
When I at last awake.
“Unto the little, unto me,”
When I at last awake.
XXIX
THE nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover—
Dips—evades—teases—deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover—
Dips—evades—teases—deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.
[18]
