…the playthings of her life…
But that little bird better, if he knows what’s good for him.
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…
The blunder is to estimate,—
“Christmas is Then,”
We say, as of a station.
Meanwhile he is so near,
He joins me in my ramble,
Creeps behind me while shopping.
No friend have I that so persists
As Christmas coming.
Dickinson’s final draft.
The clouds their backs together laid,
The north begun to push,
The forests galloped till they fell,
The lightning skipped like mice;
The thunder crumbled like a stuff—
How nice I have a gnome cave,
Where nature’s temper cannot reach,
Nor bigger people ever come!
The graver original.