|it's raining hard.|
before we went for a walk, I lit a fire in the studio
The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.
I've known her from an ample nation
Then close the valves of her attention
XIII, from 'The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson', (Barnes&Noble, 2003)
|looking at my world through a stone|