by Emily Dickinson
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American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
< < < I know a place where summer strives
I lived on dread; to those who know > > >
I know that he exists
I know that he exists
Somewhere, in silence.
He has hid his rare life
From our gross eyes.
‘T is an instant’s play,
‘T is a fond ambush,
Just to make bliss
Earn her own surprise!
But should the play
Prove piercing earnest,
Should the glee glaze
In death’s stiff stare,
Would not the fun
Look too expensive?
Would not the jest
Have crawled too far?
< < < I know a place where summer strives
I lived on dread; to those who know > > >
American Literature – American Poetry – Emily Dickinson
Copyright holders – Public Domain
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