…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.
I screwed up.
She really deserved it.
…afternoons to play…
…and visited my tub…
…and waltzed into a thrift…
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…
