Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Master

 He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,
 Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow
 Your breath has time to straighten,
Your brain to bubble cool, —
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.