Poemsby Emily Dickinson


The Lovers

 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.