a letter from emily dickinson:
Life is the finest secret.
So long as that remains, we must all whisper.
With that sublime exception I had no clandestineness.
It was lovely to see you and I hope it may happen again. These beloved accidents must become more frequent.
We are by September and yet my flowers are bold as June. Amherst has gone to Eden.
To shut our eyes is Travel.
No comments:
Post a Comment