Poemsby Emily Dickinson

Two Worlds

 It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame. 
 Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day; No blackbird bates his jargoning For passing Calvary. 
 Auto-da-fe and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.