Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

Their height in heaven comforts not,
Their glory nought to me;
'T was best imperfect, as it was;
I 'm finite, I can't see.

The house of supposition,
The glimmering frontier
That skirts the acres of perhaps,
To me shows insecure.

The wealth I had contented me;
If 't was a meaner size,
Then I had counted it until
It pleased my narrow eyes

Better than larger values,
However true their show;
This timid life of evidence
Keeps pleading, "I don't know."

1. What Inn Is This
2. It Was Not Death, for I Stood up
3. A Throe upon the Features
4. Some, Too Fragile for Winter Winds
5. Gone

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