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178 I cautious, scanned my little life— I winnowed what would fade From what would last till Heads like mine Should be a-dreaming laid. I put the latter in a Barn— The former, blew away. I went one winter morning And lo - my priceless Hay Was not upon the "Scaffold"— Was not upon the "Beam"— And from a thriving Farmer— A Cynic, I became. Whether a Thief did it— Whether it was the wind— Whether Deity's guiltless— My business is, to find! So I begin to ransack! How is it Hearts, with Thee? Art thou within the little Barn Love provided Thee?
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:23 PM | Viewed: 8493 times
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Emily Dickinson
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