< Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu
This page needs to be proofread.
POEMS. 107
You left for me to hue ; There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you.
Who knocks ? That April !
Lock the door !
I will not be pursued !
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.
�� �
This article is issued from
Wikisource.
The text is licensed under Creative
Commons - Attribution - Sharealike.
Additional terms may apply for the media files.