’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.
I have very low tolerance.
…and waltzed into a thrift…
…the playthings of her life…
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.