Unto my books so good to turn
Unto my books so good to turn / Far ends of tired days;
COMPENSATION - For each ecstatic instant
❦
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.
More poems by Emily Dickinson
THE SHELTER - The body grows outside
The body grows outside, -- / The more convenient way, --
So bashful when I spied her
So bashful when I spied her, / So pretty, so ashamed!
SURRENDER - Doubt me, my dim companion!
Doubt me, my dim companion! / Why, God would be content