Poemsby Emily Dickinson
To learn the transport by the pain, As blind men learn the sun; To die of thirst, suspecting That brooks in meadows run;
To stay the homesick, homesick feet Upon a foreign shore Haunted by native lands, the while, And blue, beloved air -
This is the sovereign anguish, This, the signal woe! These are the patient laureates Whose voices, trained below,
Ascend in ceaseless carol, Inaudible, indeed, To us, the duller scholars Of the mysterious bard!