Poemsby Emily Dickinson


 I know that he exists Somewhere, in silence. He has hid his rare life From our gross eyes. 
 'T is an instant's play, 'T is a fond ambush, Just to make bliss Earn her own surprise! 
 But should the play Prove piercing earnest, Should the glee glaze In death's stiff stare, 
 Would not the fun Look too expensive? Would not the jest Have crawled too far?