The Lightning playeth—all the while

Emily Dickinson

 Next Poem          

630

The Lightning playeth—all the while—
But when He singeth—then—
Ourselves are conscious He exist—
And we approach Him—stern—

With Insulators—and a Glove—
Whose short—sepulchral Bass
Alarms us—tho' His Yellow feet
May pass—and counterpass—

Upon the Ropes—above our Head—
Continual—with the News—
Nor We so much as check our speech—
Nor stop to cross Ourselves—

Next Poem 

 Back to Emily Dickinson
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓

Receive the ebook in seconds 50 poems from 50 different authors


To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.