Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924. |
Part One: Life
LXXIV
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| UNTO my books so good to turn | |
| Far ends of tired days; | |
| It half endears the abstinence, | |
| And pain is missed in praise. | |
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| As flavors cheer retarded guests | 5 |
| With banquetings to be, | |
| So spices stimulate the time | |
| Till my small library. | |
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| It may be wilderness without, | |
| Far feet of failing men, | 10 |
| But holiday excludes the night, | |
| And it is bells within. | |
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| I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; | |
| Their countenances bland | |
| Enamour in prospective, | 15 |
| And satisfy, obtained. | |
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