POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
’T is an instant’s play,
’T is a fond ambush,
Just to make bliss
Earn her own surprise!
’T is 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,
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?
Look too expensive?
Would not the jest
Have crawled too far?
LXXXII
MUSICIANS wrestle everywhere:
All day, among the crowded air,
I hear the silver strife;
And—waking long before the dawn—
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that “new life!”
All day, among the crowded air,
I hear the silver strife;
And—waking long before the dawn—
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that “new life!”
It is not bird, it has no nest;
Nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed,
Nor tambourine, nor man;
It is not hymn from pulpit read,—
The morning stars the treble led
On time’s first afternoon!
Nor band, in brass and scarlet dressed,
Nor tambourine, nor man;
It is not hymn from pulpit read,—
The morning stars the treble led
On time’s first afternoon!
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