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630 The Lightning playeth—all the while— But when He singeth—then— Ourselves are conscious He exist— And we approach Him—stern— With Insulators—and a Glove— Whose short—sepulchral Bass Alarms us—tho' His Yellow feet May pass—and counterpass— Upon the Ropes—above our Head— Continual—with the News— Nor We so much as check our speech— Nor stop to cross Ourselves—
Added: 2 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:58 PM | Viewed: 7475 times
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Emily Dickinson
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