Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Soul's Storm

 It struck me every day   The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit   And let the fire through. 
 It burned me in the night,   It blistered in my dream; It sickened fresh upon my sight   With every morning's beam. 
 I thought that storm was brief, -   The maddest, quickest by; But Nature lost the date of this,   And left it in the sky.