He Fumbles at Your Spirit, por Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

He Fumbles at Your Spirit

He fumbles at your spirit

As players at the keys

Before they drop full music on;

He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance

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 thunderbolt

That scalps your naked soul.

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