He made very little sense.
…though myself a millionaire…
…sounds long, until…
…lips unused to thee…
…the playthings of her life…
What next?
XIX.
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…
…I cannot see the seat…
XVI.
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.
