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.