Page:Emily Dickinson Poems (1890).djvu/35

 XIV.

THE SECRET.

OME things that fly there be,— Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy.

Some things that stay there be,— Grief, hills, eternity: Nor this behooveth me.

There are, that resting, rise. Can I expound the skies? How still the riddle lies!