Poemsby Emily Dickinson

IV

 We cover thee, sweet face.   Not that we tire of thee, But that thyself fatigue of us;   Remember, as thou flee, We follow thee until   Thou notice us no more, And then, reluctant, turn away   To con thee o'er and o'er, And blame the scanty love   We were content to show, Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold   If thou would'st take it now.