Poemsby Emily Dickinson

II

Choice

 Of all the souls that stand create I have elected one. When sense from spirit files away, And subterfuge is done; 
 When that which is and that which was Apart, intrinsic, stand, And this brief tragedy of flesh Is shifted like a sand; 
 When figures show their royal front And mists are carved away, - Behold the atom I preferred To all the lists of clay!