|
I've
known a Heaven, like a Tent--
To wrap its shining Yards--
Pluck up its Stakes, and disappear--
Without the sound of Boards
Or Rip of Nail--Or Carpenter--
But just the miles of Stare--
That signalize a Show's retreat--
In North America--
No Trace--no Figment of the Thing
That dazzled, Yesterday,
No Ring--no Marvel--
Men, and Feats--
Dissolved as utterly--
As Bird's far Navigation
Discloses just a Hue--
A plash of Oars, a Gaiety--
Then swallowed up, of View.
Emily Dickinson
| 