Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

The Brain, within its Groove
Runs evenly — and true —
But let a Splinter swerve —
'Twere easier for You —

To put a Current back —
When Floods have slit the Hills —
And scooped a Turnpike for Themselves —
And trodden out the Mills — 

1. Childish Griefs
2. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
3. Power
4. Is Bliss, Then, Such Abyss
5. Thanksgiving Day

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