Page:Emily Dickinson Poems - third series (1896).djvu/137

 POEMS. 123

��XIX. A SNAKE.

OWEET is the swamp with its secrets, ^ Until we meet a snake ; 'T is then we sigh for houses,

And our departure take At that enthralling gallop

That only childhood knows. A snake is summer's treason,

And guile is where it goes.

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