Poemsby Emily Dickinson

XIX

 So bashful when I spied her, So pretty, so ashamed! So hidden in her leaflets, Lest anybody find; 
 So breathless till I passed her, So helpless when I turned And bore her, struggling, blushing, Her simple haunts beyond! 
 For whom I robbed the dingle, For whom betrayed the dell, Many will doubtless ask me, But I shall never tell!