…which never wrote to me…
XVII.
Who robed the woods,
The happy woods?
The frolicksome trees
Had shed their flowers and leaves
Their fantasies to please.
I scanned their bits, offended,
I threw them burrs and moss.
Thus the solemn hemlock stood;
Thus was fir-tree’s loss.
—
Her final draft (with interpretation), which was also amusing.
…lips unused to thee…
…the playthings of her life…
But that little bird better, if he knows what’s good for him.
What next?
XIX.
Pain has an element of blank
Plus a little oxygen
And perhaps some bronze,—
Basically all the chemical elements.
It has no other pieces but those,
In addition to a dram of bile—
And a bit of transcendentalum—
Wait—let me think more a while.
—
The original (as written by Dickinson).
At least, not a real one…
