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.
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.
…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.
She really deserved it.
…afternoons to play…
XVI.
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.
XV.
I’ve seen a dying eye
Run round and round a room
In search of something, likely its head,
Then cloudier become;
And then, obscure with fog,
Annoyed at falling out,
Blink thrice in quick succession,
Surprised its eyelids were still attached.
—
The original.
…but you won’t believe what happened NEXT!
I don’t have time to count. Throw the switch!