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505 I would not paint—a picture— I'd rather be the One Its 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!
Added: 9 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 30 Aug 2008 1:01 AM | Viewed: 6945 times
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Emily Dickinson
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