He Fumbles at Your Soul, par Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

He Fumbles at Your Soul

315

He fumbles at your Soul

As Players at the Keys

Before they drop full Music on—

He stuns you by degrees—

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Ethereal Blow

By fainter Hammers—further heard—

Then nearer—Then so slow

Your Breath has time to straighten—

Your Brain—to bubble Cool—

Deals—One—imperial&mda sh;Thunderbolt—

That scalps your naked Soul—

When Winds take Forests in the Paws—

The Universe—is still—

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Emily Dickinson