| MAXIMIZE PAGE FOR VIEWING |
| The Distance That the Dead Have Gone The distance that the dead have gone Does not at first appear;' Their coming back seems possible For many an ardent year.'' And then, that we have followed them We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become With their dear retrospect. |
 |
 |
| The Brain Within Its Groove The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, 'T were easier for you To put the water back When floods have slit the hills, And scooped a turnpike for themselves, And blotted out the mills! |
 |
|
| The Sky Is Low, The Clouds Are Mean, The sky is low, the clouds are mean, A travelling flake of snow Across a barn or through a rut Debates if it will go. A narrow wind complains all day How some one treated him; Nature, like us, is sometimes caught Without her diadem. |
|
 |
 |
|
| NEXT |
 |
| More Dickinson Poetry |