XXIV. Whether a whale will eat a porpoise, Whether a lobster dance on waves, Whether an isle sail by With pirates partying in caves; If a lighthouse lay down And take a rest at day,— This is the errand of the eye Out upon the bay. — Dickinson’s final draft.
…though myself a millionaire…
…sounds long, until…
XXIII.
’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.
…well, I’m not sure why…
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.
I have very low tolerance.
