…which never wrote to me…
XXIII.
’T was such a little, little boat
That toddled down the bay!
’T was such a gallant, gallant sea
That beckoned it away!
’T was such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the coast;
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
I muttered “shit, shit, it’s lost!”
—
Her final draft.
…well, I’m not sure why…
XXI.
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Only that his frame was rust.
He was a car.
A dead car.
I have very low tolerance.
…sounds long, but wait until you hear this…
…it was a common night, except for the ghosts…
XVIII.
There is a silly Goofiness
That many die without,
Not feeling great that moment,
’Cause dying sucks a lot.
But nature sometimes, sometimes thought,
That whoso it befall
Laughs more than could be divulged
By banal folderol.
—
Dickinson’s final draft.
