The soul unto itself
The soul unto itself / Is an imperial friend, --
THE WIND - It's like the light
❦
It's like the light, --
A fashionless delight
It's like the bee, --
A dateless melody.
It's like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.
It's like the morning, --
Best when it's done, --
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon.
More poems by Emily Dickinson
A WORD - A word is dead
A word is dead / When it is said,
To learn the transport by the pain
To learn the transport by the pain, / As blind men learn the sun;
EMANCIPATION
No rack can torture me, / My soul's at liberty