208
 
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.

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
S'identifier Commentaires...
Email

Autres oeuvres par Emily Dickinson...

Quelques poètes qui suivent Emily Dickinson...

Autómata de sueños Hannah Tourniquet theNMH DagMar Dederichs Аня Бруцкая