Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Spirit


As far from pity as complaint,
  As cool to speech as stone,
As numb to revelation
  As if my trade were bone.
As far from time as history,
  As near yourself to-day
As children to the rainbow's scarf,
  Or sunset's yellow play
To eyelids in the sepulchre.
  How still the dancer lies,
While color's revelations break,
  And blaze the butterflies!