CHOICE - Of all the souls that stand create

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Of all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit files away,
And subterfuge is done;

When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved away, --
Behold the atom I preferred
To all the lists of clay!

More poems by Emily Dickinson

A poor torn heart, a tattered heart, / That sat it down to rest,

Before you thought of spring, / Except as a surmise,

THERE is another Loneliness / That many die without,

Doubt me, my dim companion! / Why, God would be content