Poem by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

* * *

A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.

If town it have, beyond itself,
'T is that I cannot say;
I only sigh, — no vehicle
Bears me along that way.

1. Contrast
2. Ventures
3. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
4. Philosophy
5. This Merit Hath the Worst

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