DESIRE - Who never wanted, -- maddest joy
Who never wanted, -- maddest joy / Remains to him unknown:
We cover thee sweet face
❦
We cover thee, sweet face.
Not that we tire of thee,
But that thyself fatigue of us;
Remember, as thou flee,
We follow thee until
Thou notice us no more,
And then, reluctant, turn away
To con thee o'er and o'er,
And blame the scanty love
We were content to show,
Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold
If thou would'st take it now.
More poems by Emily Dickinson
THERE is another Loneliness
THERE is another Loneliness / That many die without,
The soul unto itself
The soul unto itself / Is an imperial friend, --
AUTUMN - The morns are meeker than they were
The morns are meeker than they were, / The nuts are getting brown;