Some Poetry.

Emily Dickinson.

The Rose did caper on her cheek --
Her Bodice rose and fell --
Her pretty speech -- like drunken men --
Did stagger pitiful --

Her fingers fumbled at her work --
Her needle would not go --
What ailed so smart a little Maid --
It puzzled me to know --

Till opposite -- I spied a cheek
That bore another Rose --
Just opposite -- Another speech
That like the Drunkard goes --

A Vest that like her Bodice, danced --
To the immortal tune --
Till those two troubled -- little Clocks
Ticked softly into one.

 * * * * * * 

To lose thee, sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
'Tis true the drought is destitute,
But then I had the dew!

* * * * * * *


For now, that is all. I might attend a salsa night tonight.
I have also been reading Edgar Allan Poe, but he's hardly the charmer that Miss
Dickinson is! Ah, still, he's a fav.