by Emily Dickinson
I know that He exists.
Somewhere -- in Silence --
He has hid his rare life
From our gross eyes.
'Tis an instant's play.
'Tis a fond Ambush --
Just to make Bliss
Earn her own surprise!
But -- should the play
Prove piercing earnest --
Should the glee -- glaze --
In Death's -- stiff -- stare --
Would not the fun
Look too expensive!
Would not the jest --
Have crawled too far!
Copyright ©:
Emily Dickinson
Last updated September 16, 2011