Distrustful of the Gentian –
And just to turn away,
The fluttering of her fringes
Child my perfidy —
Weary for my —
I will singing go —
I shall not feel the sleet — then –
I shall not fear the snow.

Flees so the phantom meadow
Before the breathless Bee —
So bubble brooks in deserts
On Ears that dying lie –
Burn so the Evening Spires
To Eyes that Closing go —
Hangs so distant Heaven —
To a hand below.
-Emily Dickinson