I would not paint a picture
I would not paint — a picture
I'd rather be the One
It's bright impossibility
To dwell — delicious — on
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare — celestial — stir
Evokes so sweet a torment
Such sumptuous — Despair
I would not talk, like Cornets
I'd rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings
And out, and easy on
Through Villages of Ether
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal
The pier to my Pontoon
Nor would I be a Poet
It's finer — Own the Ear
Enamored — impotent — content
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts — of Melody!
...... by Emily Dickinson
No comments:
Post a Comment