by Emily Dickinson
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American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
< < < The Walking Year
The White Heat > > >
The way I read a letter ‘s this
The way I read a letter ‘s this:
‘T is first I lock the door,
And push it with my fingers next,
For transport it be sure.
And then I go the furthest off
To counteract a knock;
Then draw my little letter forth
And softly pick its lock.
Then, glancing narrow at the wall,
And narrow at the floor,
For firm conviction of a mouse
Not exorcised before,
Peruse how infinite I am
To — no one that you know!
And sigh for lack of heaven, — but not
The heaven the creeds bestow.
< < < The Walking Year
The White Heat > > >
American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
Copyright holders – Public Domain
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