I'd rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell--delicious--on--
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare--celestial--stir--
Evokes so sweet a Torment--
Such sumptuous--Despair--
I would not talk, like Cornets--
I'd rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings--
And out, and easy on--
Through Villages of Ether--
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal--
The pier to my Pontoon--
Nor would I be a Poet--
Its finer--own the Ear--
Enamored--impotent--content--
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
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