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. Contrast
2. The Nearest Dream Recedes, Unrealized
3. This Merit Hath the Worst
4. Who Robbed the Woods
5. Going to Heaven!

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