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968 Fitter to see Him, I may be For the long Hindrance—Grace—to Me— With Summers, and with Winters, grow, Some passing Year—A trait bestow To make Me fairest of the Earth— The Waiting—then—will seem so worth I shall impute with half a pain The blame that I was chosen—then— Time to anticipate His Gaze— It's first—Delight—and then—Surprise— The turning o'er and o'er my face For Evidence it be the Grace— He left behind One Day—So less He seek Conviction, That—be This— I only must not grow so new That He'll mistake—and ask for me Of me—when first unto the Door I go—to Elsewhere go no more— I only must not change so fair He'll sigh—"The Other—She—is Where?" The Love, tho', will array me right I shall be perfect—in His sight— If He perceive the other Truth— Upon an Excellenter Youth— How sweet I shall not lack in Vain— But gain—thro' loss—Through Grief—obtain— The Beauty that reward Him best— The Beauty of Demand—at Rest—
Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:00 PM | Viewed: 7287 times
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Emily Dickinson
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