Poemsby Emily Dickinson
The rose did caper on her cheek, Her bodice rose and fell, Her pretty speech, like drunken men, Did stagger pitiful.
Her fingers fumbled at her work, - Her needle would not go; What ailed so smart a little maid It puzzled me to know,
Till opposite I spied a cheek That bore another rose; Just opposite, another speech That like the drunkard goes;
A vest that, like the bodice, danced To the immortal tune, - Till those two troubled little clocks Ticked softly into one.