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443 I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— Life's little duties do—precisely— As the very least Were infinite—to me— I put new Blossoms in the Glass— And throw the old—away— I push a petal from my gown That anchored there—I weigh The time 'twill be till six o'clock I have so much to do— And yet—Existence—some way back— Stopped—struck—my tickling—through— We cannot put Ourself away As a completed Man Or Woman—When the Errand's done We came to Flesh—upon— There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought— Of Action—sicker far— To simulate—is stinging work— To cover what we are From Science—and from Surgery— Too Telescopic Eyes To bear on us unshaded— For their—sake—not for Ours— 'Twould start them— We—could tremble— But since we got a Bomb— And held it in our Bosom— Nay—Hold it—it is calm— Therefore—we do life's labor— Though life's Reward—be done— With scrupulous exactness— To hold our Senses—on—
Added: 19 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:43 PM | Viewed: 8487 times
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Emily Dickinson
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